


Life Lessons

by bixgirl1



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (like seriously so much kissing), (which are not — unfortunately — used), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Auror Harry, Banter, Dancing, Draco is driving him 'round the bend, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Epistolary Elements, Flirting, Gift Fic, Harry's just trying to get things right y'all, Humor, Intergluteal Sex, Kissing, M/M, Manipulation, Mentions of Sex Toys, Oral Sex, Rimming, Semi Public Sex, Snark, Switching, UST, Wandless Magic, Weird plotty stuff 'cause I can't help myself, mentions of childhood trauma, mentions of previously-made sexual threats, wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-07 17:53:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 68,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19090108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bixgirl1/pseuds/bixgirl1
Summary: On the cusp of a promotion, Harry needs a little help with his image. Enter Draco Malfoy — who doesn't really do that, Potter — to whip him into shape… and make him feel things he hasn't for a very long time.Featuring: odd jobs, surprising chemistry, lots of accidental kissing, theProphetliving up to type, owls exhausted by the carrying of dirty letters, a secret no one can talk about, a merry band of Slytherins (none of whom really approve), and an enchanted mirror (who really, really does).





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [m4g0rtz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/m4g0rtz/gifts).



> Super hugs to my betas, [lqtraintracks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumosed_quill/pseuds/lq_traintracks/works?fandom_id=136512) and [coriesocks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coriesocks/pseuds/RuArcher/works?fandom_id=136512), who were brilliant and thoughtful, and whose insightful notes made this ten times better than it would have been otherwise. You guys rock.
> 
> And many thanks to the mods, who not only organized this fest, but also graciously indulged my requests for extensions when I started over from scratch a month before the due date, and then again when life stuff got in the way.
> 
> [m4g0rtz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/m4g0rtz/pseuds/m4g0rtz), you are a wonderful commenter, a brilliant artist, and above all, a great friend. I hope you don't mind that I veered from your prompts — you deserve to have all of them fulfilled — but I hope I got enough of your likes in here to suffice. You're such a lovely person, so funny and kind, and I feel absolutely privileged to call you a friend. Thank you so much for doing all you do for the fandom. <33333

It was one of the most fundamental truths of Harry’s life: as soon as things were going well, everything would turn to shit. 

You’re a wizard, Harry — just be on guard for that murderer hunting you. You have a godfather, Harry — but be careful not to get too attached to him. From his relationship with Ginny (which never got back off the ground after the war) to his life after defeating Voldemort (which would never resemble anything approaching normal), there was always some sort of caveat. Privately, he called it “End of the School Year Syndrome.” 

The fact that this time it had actually been _scheduled_ for late June was simply ironic. 

“That’s not even six weeks away,” Hermione said, frowning. 

“Your confidence in me is inspirational,” Harry said. “And the maths isn't really what I’m having a problem with.” He took the invitation back from her and re-buried his face in one of the sofa pillows. It smelled a little like feet and Ron’s deodorant, as though Ron had Transfigured it into a footstool and then only had time to hastily return it to form and freshen it with a charm before Hermione saw and got on him again about just using one of their existing footstools. Harry tossed it to the floor, face smooshing against the sofa cushion as he blindly reached out in search of another pillow. He heard Hermione huff just as one hit him on the back of the head. Harry shoved it under his face. “Thanks,” he said, muffled. 

There was a beat of silence, and then Hermione sighed and rested her hand against the back of his head. “How long do you need to sulk?” she asked, stroking her fingers through his hair.

Harry slumped a little deeper. “Five weeks.”

“I’ll give you until Ron gets back with dinner,” she said, more to herself than him. "And for goodness’ sake, Harry, at least take off your glasses.”

Harry managed to take them off without lifting his head or breaking them — proof, he supposed, that he wasn’t entirely incompetent. Hermione took them from his hand and rose with a final, fluttering pat on his shoulder blade. Harry exhaled and tried to consider his options, but was quickly lulled by the drum of the rain on the windowpanes and the pop of the fire. He listened to Hermione putter around her kitchen and relaxed; more than for the advice or commiseration, this was why he’d come, if he was honest. Ron and Hermione’s cottage was homey, calm, most of their furniture crafted from Ron’s magic, the air inside scented by the lavender Hermione had planted in the beds below their windows. Harry missed the company, and the lived-in quality of the tiny flat they’d shared before Ron and Hermione moved out, the distracted mess of three people training for unrelated careers, always someone either there or about to be. 

He liked the flat he'd moved into on his own just fine, but working the hours he did left it with a silent, sterile quality he could never seem to get rid of, even when he left the wireless on or avoided laundry for a few days. He’d tried to spruce it up more than once, but Neville wouldn’t even let him _buy_ plants anymore, not after the Solicitous Succulents he’d brought over on Boxing Day — _When they bloom, they emit soothing pheromones! You can’t kill them, they barely need any attention!_ — had weaponised their thorns within an hour of Nev’s arrival; a defensive measure they took when they were in danger of drying out, Neville told him later, and one he’d thought was a myth. 

The sound of Ron’s Apparition to their front door roused Harry from his reverie, but he didn’t get up. He heard the rustle of takeaway being opened and dished out, a low hum of murmurs, and his own name — and then Ron shouted, “What the bloody _fuck_?” and stomped, fuming, into the parlour. “They’re not going to give it to you?”

Harry pushed up from his prone position and shrugged as Ron glowered down at him. “They might,” he said. “Robards said they might still.”

“Give over,” Ron said, and Harry dutifully scooted to make space. Ron threw himself down onto the sofa. “It’s utter shit, Harry.”

“I know.”

“He’s been telling you that job’s yours for… for years!”

“I know.”

“You’ve worked longer hours and closed more cases than anyone in the entire department!” Ron said. His outrage was soothing, both to Harry’s temper and his self-esteem, and a grateful smile tugged at Harry’s lips. 

“I know,” he said again. 

"You should just run," Ron spat. "Hermione's been saying it, we'll organise a campaign--"

"We'd have no time to prepare for it now. Besides, even if I wanted to, it would look… wrong. Robards would step aside, but… He didn't even have to run in the last election five years ago, and and no one's _ever_ won who wasn't backed by both the exiting Head Auror, the Minister, and at least half the Wizengamot," Harry said, shaking his head when Ron took another deep breath and opened his mouth. “And anyway, Robards said it's not as simple at that.”

“The age thing again?”

Harry scowled. “I wish.” 

Twice before, Robards had put off retiring when certain members of the Wizengamot had made it plain that, no matter Harry’s accomplishments to date, they had no intention of promoting someone barely into their twenties to the position of Head Auror. Trying not to take issue with their reasoning — or the extra work Robards piled on him to make a point of his capabilities — Harry’d not made a single complaint as his twenty-third and twenty-fourth birthdays ticked by. But with every successfully closed case since, Robards had assured him that by his twenty-fifth he’d have his promotion. 

And then he’d called Harry in for a meeting today, offering Harry a drink before he’d even sat down. 

Ron made a disgruntled sound and folded his arms across his chest. “What’s the problem this time?”

“As I was trying to tell you, husband-mine,” Hermione said dryly, walking in and levitating three plates behind her, “It's supposedly Harry.”

“What's Harry?” Ron asked, shooting her a sheepish look. He lifted two of the plates from midair, passing one over to Harry. The salty grease of Ron’s selection — fish and chips — teased at Harry’s senses and he tried to recall when he ate last. Breakfast, probably.

“The problem,” Hermione said, taking her own plate and sitting between them. “It’s Harry.”

“And I’m supposed to be the tactless one,” Ron stage-whispered to him.

“I’m not a problem,” Harry said, pulling a wounded face at Hermione.

She made a little sound of protest. “I didn’t—”

“Arguing with her never ends well,” Ron said. “You might as well just get on board with being a problem, capital P.”

“I don’t want to be a Problem,” Harry said. He turned beseeching eyes at Hermione. “Couldn’t I be something like Trouble instead?”

Ron nodded sagely. “You’ve got enough experi—”

“Oh my god, _fine!_ ” Hermione said, dropping her utensils on her plate. Cheered by the clear exasperation on her face, Harry laughed and looked at Ron, who popped three chips in his mouth and quirked her an unrepentant grin. Hermione rolled her eyes and elbowed Ron, but the look she shot him was fond and warm. “Hush, or you’ll end up with your own problem — with a capital P,” she said warningly. She turned back to Harry. “There is a point to be considered about your image, that's not wrong.”

“Hermione!” Ron said, but Hermione looked at Harry steadily, waiting. Expectant.

Harry frowned, effectively distracted from distracting himself. He squeezed a lemon wedge over his fish and opened a packet of vinegar, sprinkling it over his chips to buy some time. 

“Well, it's not _right_ ,” he said at length. 

“No, I know,” Hermione said, gaze softening. 

“All right, can someone actually explain then?” Ron asked, waving his fork at each of them in turn and then stabbing, a little viciously, into his fish. 

“It’s me. My conduct outside of work isn’t ‘befitting a senior Ministry position,’” he quoted, sounding sullen to his own ears. “The way I talk to the press, or the way I avoid them. Maybe both. The Head Auror is responsible for releasing public statements, and you know me.”

“So?” Ron said, brows drawing together. “You’re a little short-tempered with them, so what? S’not like they’re ever asking you about cases, are they? It’s always about who you’re seeing, or was that really your bum in those pictures. It’s been almost three years since you hexed one of them. Just write up the statements and release them that way.”

“There’s other things, too,” Harry said. He flushed. “The way I am with the public—”

“You’re _great_ with the public!” Ron said, starting to look angry again. “You talk to every kid you meet, you donate, you—”

“I lose my temper with people, though.” Harry took a breath. “I arrested that man last year who wouldn’t leave me alone—”

“He was trying to shove his hand down the back of your trousers!” Ron sputtered.

“—and that whole thing in the _Prophet_ questioning how much of an asset I could be to the Ministry when my name got in the way of my job… Well, it got a lot of traction,” Harry said. He looked down at his plate, stomach suddenly churning. “And whenever I go to public events, I stay on the sidelines, or I’m accidentally rude to some diplomat—”

“That happened twice!”

“Four times.” Harry grimaced. “More, really. Apart from little things like spilling wine all over Ireland’s Minister for Magic or insulting that envoy from Brazil by having to leave early when I got sick off the Firerolls they served at their event, apparently my dress robes are all wrong, I’ve not once used the correct fork, I may as well eat my feet for how often they’re in my mouth, and I refuse to dance, no matter who’s asking.”

“Well you’re not _good_ at it!” Ron fairly yelled, getting so red in the face his freckles were barely visible. “How the bloody hell can anyone _blame_ you after what happened last time!” Harry huffed a pained laugh and looked at him, and Ron winced. “I mean—”

“Ron,” Hermione said quietly. Ron flicked her a glance and subsided, jaw tight. 

Harry leaned forward to deposit his untouched dinner onto the coffee table. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed, tipping his head against the back of the sofa. Studying the ceiling, he admitted, “They want someone who’s not going to step on the hem of the Spanish Minister’s daughter, tearing her dress all the way up to her knickers and I’m— I’m a fucking mess.”

“No you’re not,” Hermione said loyally. She took his hand, voice firming. “You’ve got _every reason_ to be tetchy with the press and crowds of people who trail after you, and Ron’s right— you _are_ wonderful with everyone else. And you’re _clever,_ Harry. No, I mean it,” she insisted when he snorted. “When you’re interested in something, you learn it so quickly. You’ve simply got caught in your own head, and so you don't execute… Or perhaps you forget…"

“Proper manners?” Harry suggested, feeling a tired smile cross his face. He squeezed her hand in thanks.

“Oh, tosh.” Hermione sniffed and flipped the cloud of her hair away from her face. “Everyone knows you’re polite and kind and talented; just because you haven’t taken the time — or _been given_ the time,” she added, a hint of disapproval lacing her tone, “to learn the etiquette you've been told the Wizengamot expects from you doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means I’m not going to get the promotion I’ve been working my arse off for,” Harry said wryly. He let the knowledge of it settle, quiet and unavoidable, inside him. It felt to weigh about a thousand tonnes, and he was abruptly glad he hadn’t eaten anything; there probably wouldn’t even have been room.

“Well of course not, if you’re giving up,” Hermione said, sounding irritated. 

“What d’you suggest?” Harry asked, eyeing her. “Forks and fashion don’t interest me, I’m rubbish at small talk, and I don’t think _you_ need the reminder that I went to the same dance instructor as Ron did before your wedding and somehow came away a worse dancer than I was in fourth year.”

“God, that’s right,” Ron muttered. He glanced at Hermione’s bare feet as if to reassure himself that Harry hadn’t magically broken another one of her toes, and Harry choked on a laugh, rubbing his hands over his face. Ron looked at Hermione. “What’s your plan?”

“What makes you think I have a plan?” Hermione asked innocently.

Harry narrowed his eyes. “Hermione?”

“I don’t have a plan,” she said. Harry waited her out; she _always_ had a plan, even when one wasn’t necessary. Flicking Harry and Ron nervous little looks, she nibbled on her lower lip, then reached for Harry’s plate and set it back on his lap. “I _don’t_ ,” she said. “I just have…”

“What?” Harry picked his fork up again when she nodded pointedly towards it, and cut off a bite of his fish when she didn’t say anything. He chewed and swallowed, then cut another bite. “What do you have?”

Hermione gave an apologetic sigh. “An idea.”

* * *

The door was as rickety as the staircase had been, the wood splintered and not quite fitting into the frame, and Harry checked the slip of parchment again. Held it up to the small, copper placard beside the door to compare its tasteful engraving with Hermione’s hurried, looping scrawl in the flickering light provided by the corridor’s lamps. They continued to match no matter how many times Harry inspected them for an inaccuracy, though Harry supposed he could guess why Hermione left the title of the place off the parchment she’d pressed into his hand last night.

_61B Diagon Alley South_  
Metaphysical Massage and Magical Revitalisation Therapy  
Est. 2004  
Muggleborns and Walk-Ins Welcome 

Harry considered sending Hermione a Patronus, but he wasn’t sure he could even conjure one at the moment, let alone whether one would carry the message, “What the fuck are you thinking?” to her. Feathering the hair over his forehead with a hard exhale, Harry knocked, three gentle taps that he hoped might not break down the door entirely.

“ _Please enter_ ,” a woman said, calm and melodious, to the general air around him. 

Paranoid, Harry looked around, waiting for someone to perhaps jump out from behind the corner, but when no one did, Harry twisted the knob and stepped inside. It was rather like entering a wizarding tent; immediately, the room was brighter by far, chunks of buttery sunlight spilling in through the gauze-curtained windows though the sun had gone down an hour ago — and bigger than Harry expected, too, the gleaming pine floors and bare walls seeming to expand the space all on their own. With the distant echo of chimes in his ears, Harry took everything in: the foggy four-paneled screen dividing one corner of the room from the rest of it, the high, padded table near the centre, and the reception-like desk just a few steps from him. There was a doorless frame against the back wall, two heavier white curtains blocking the back from view, and Harry took a step towards it when the woman’s voice startled him again:

“ _Please remove your shoes and sign in. Someone will be with you momentarily._

Sweet Merlin, if Hermione was sending him to a place like _this_ , Harry could only assume he must have even less hope than he’d originally thought. 

Harry removed his boots and, self conscious in his uniform and socked feet, headed to the reception desk. A book and quill stand had appeared, and he wrote out ~~Ha~~ _Customer_ under where it asked for his name, and _Hermione Granger_ under where it asked for his reference. He was still dithering over what to write under the last line — _What brings you in today?_ — when the curtains at the back of the room rustled, and—

And Draco bloody Malfoy walked out. 

They stared at each other, the shock spiking through Harry comically reflected on Malfoy’s face for the barest of moments. There was a room-length between them, but Malfoy looked mostly as he had the last time Harry’d seen him, tall and lanky and pale as snow, only now his eyes were clear and his complexion healthy — and he wasn’t swaying on his feet. 

Malfoy recovered first. “Potter,” he drawled, just as the silence began to stretch into the territory of awkward. “Granger sent you?” 

“I— She—” Harry broke off, nodding stupidly. Malfoy’s clothes were different as well, a long-sleeved white cotton t-shirt and white drawstring trousers in place of his traditional robes, and his feet were bare, but his face had shuttered into a close approximation of the haughty expression he’d worn through most of their years at Hogwarts. That, at least, was familiar. 

Malfoy’s Adam’s apple bobbed, but he only returned Harry’s nod and gestured to the room divider. “Well, it’s technically after-hours, but I can fit you in. Go ahead and disrobe behind the screen — there are towels and products — and pick the oil or tonic you prefer, and I’ll be with you in just a moment.” 

“For _what?_ ” Harry blurted. 

One hand parting the curtains he came out of, Malfoy paused. “You can choose whichever you’re drawn to, though I’d personally recommend the ylang-ylang oil along with the lavender tonic; the sensation will be intense, but you’re so stiff—” he flicked his fingers in Harry’s direction, his assessment getting more accurate by the second, “it’s colouring your magical atmosphere, so it’s probably best you unload as much of it as you possibly can before we proceed to a more languid stripping at a later session,” he said as Harry scrambled to come up with some sort of reply.

Mouth apparently entirely disconnected from his brain, what it supplied was, “Stripping?”

Malfoy narrowed his eyes, hand dropping away from the curtain. He sucked in one cheek, accentuating the sharp, high line of his cheekbone, and then abruptly barked an unamused laugh. “I don’t owe Granger _that_ much, Potter. The sign out front isn’t code for anything else, I assure you.”

“What—” Harry gulped in a breath, relieved. Probably. “What do you owe her?”

“She didn’t tell you,” Malfoy said flatly. “About anything, I suppose. Ah.” He crossed his arms over his chest, slender biceps bunching under his shirt, and rolled his eyes. “Legal confidentiality. Did you even know to expect me?”

“She said…” Harry forced the words out. “She said you were someone who could help me.”

“That’s probably true,” Malfoy said, running his eyes up and down Harry. “Merlin knows you look even more hopeless than you did in school. But am I supposed to glean from that taciturn expression what sort of help you’re expecting? You’re obviously not here for what I traditionally offer.”

The fact that Malfoy was right didn’t make Harry any less curious about what, exactly, it was that Malfoy offered, but he shook his head. “No, it’s personal. A personal issue.”

“And Granger has you knocking on my door for it?” Malfoy asked. He lifted one incredulous eyebrow and clicked his tongue. Smirked. “I have to admit, I never thought I’d see such a day. Precisely how desperate _are_ you?”

Just like that, enough blood flowed back to Harry’s brain to restore his common sense. Malfoy wasn’t yelling drunken obscenities at him any longer and may have successfully reintegrated into wizarding society since their last confrontation, he might be on secret speaking-terms with Hermione and look mouth-wateringly good wearing extremely thin drawstring trousers, but… He was still _Malfoy._ Arrogant to the last and clearly prepared to hold anything Harry divulged over Harry’s head. 

“Desperate enough to show up not knowing what might happen,” Harry bit out. “Not desperate enough now that I know.” He retrieved his boots and gave Malfoy an abbreviated nod as he reached for the door.

“Potter, wait.”

Harry hesitated. Behind him, Malfoy heaved a long-suffering sigh, and when Harry turned, he found him brooding angrily at the floor. Then Malfoy scowled and scrubbed a hand over his face, sighed again as though bracing himself to do something unpleasant, and finally met Harry’s eyes. 

“There’s a place down the road, on West Street,” he said, reluctance radiating off him. “The Ivy. Give me thirty minutes to shower, and I’ll meet you there.”

* * *

The Ivy turned out to be a restaurant, art deco in design and a bit too trendy and upscale for Harry’s comfort — and, he thought, attire — though the hostess promptly seated him at the bar. He set aside the two menus she furnished him with and stared at the clock, waiting for Malfoy to not show. The whole thing was preposterous, both that Hermione would send Harry, unprepared, to Malfoy for help, and that Harry was considering actually asking him. But he couldn’t shake two facts: that Hermione _did_ trust Malfoy enough to send Harry his way, and that Malfoy’s ‘wait’ had sounded… almost like an apology.

Malfoy arrived five minutes before the thirty were up, windswept but stylish in a pair of charcoal trousers cinched at the waist with a narrow black belt, and a lightweight, soft-looking blue jumper over a collared shirt and tie. He looked around and saw Harry at the bar, smilingly murmured something to the hostess, and before Harry knew it, he was being escorted to a small, private booth in the back of the dining room. Malfoy ordered without opening the menus, passed them over, and faced Harry as the hostess walked away. 

“So I suppose the polite thing would be to refrain from asking any questions?” he asked. 

Harry blinked. “I suppose the polite thing would be to pretend you’ve ever been polite?”

“Well, I distinctly remember not telling you to fuck off when you showed up,” Malfoy said. His lips curved in a more subtle version of the smile he’d given the hostess, reserved but— appealing. Striking. Harry blinked a few more times and inhaled sharply when Malfoy decided to lean toward him, across the table. “Might even hold off on my weekly virgin sacrifice out of consideration for your job — depending on what you want, of course.”

As disconcerted as he was unwillingly amused, Harry said, “Do what you need to; virgins are overrated anyway.” 

“Good to know.” Malfoy sat back. “Wouldn’t want your reputation to suffer too badly. It might be of use to me, especially if it’s going to reflect on me somehow.”

“It should be of use to someone,” Harry said bitterly, reminded of the regretful edge to Robards’ voice as he broke the news. Malfoy frowned and looked so like he was about to say something scathing, Harry couldn’t stop a snicker from breaking free from his throat. “Besides, I’d be more worried about the Hippogriff population, really.”

“You have my word as a Malfoy I’ve never taken the virginity of a single Hippogriff,” Malfoy said, and Harry laughed outright. He supposed on some level he’d always known that Malfoy could be clever; it was just so much easier to appreciate when Malfoy directed his sense of humour towards Harry rather than _at_ him. Malfoy went blank for a beat at Harry’s laugh, then seemed to waver between pleasure and disapproval, a faint pink tinge climbing his throat as Harry quieted down. Harry couldn’t figure out how two such opposite expressions could live so harmoniously on someone’s face, but it _was_ Malfoy, and Harry could relate, at least, to feeling both at once — a big part of him, perhaps the majority, was still trying to convince himself to brandish his wand.

Drinks arrived, two whiskies Harry’d barely heard Malfoy order. Malfoy hurriedly took a long swallow of his and, confused, Harry followed suit, silent when Malfoy set down his drink and cleared his throat. “Those things leave scars, you know. Bad enough having one on my arm, I’d be terrified of getting one on my cock.”

Annoyed, Harry rolled his eyes. “Buckbeak did not leave a—”

“Oh no?” Malfoy asked, upper lip pulling back with just enough derision to make Harry pause.

“You were faking,” he said at last. “Not—” he held up a hand to forestall Malfoy’s objection, “—the initial injury, I know that. But later.”

Malfoy glared at him, and Harry might have felt bad that they couldn’t even muddle through a conversation for a few minutes without the past rearing its ugly head, except he’d _been there_ ; he knew, without a doubt, that Malfoy’s endless drama over getting scratched had been an ill-tempered bid for attention to distract from the fact that he was to blame. But then a warped sort of self-righteousness skittered over Malfoy’s face, and he reached for the hem of his jumper. Pulling it off over his head, he dropped it carelessly to the seat next to him and wordlessly removed the cufflink pinning his left sleeve closed. It gave a metallic rattle as he dropped it onto the table. 

Nonplussed, Harry inhaled sharply, quietly. “Malfoy—”

“Why waste time arguing over it when I can just show you,” Malfoy said coolly, folding his sleeve back with quick, jerky movements. Harry’s gaze was drawn immediately to the bright ink on the inside of his forearm, a tattoo of some sort covering his Mark, but Malfoy continued shoving up his sleeve when it reached his elbow, and rotated his arm. Only a few inches were visible, the rest disappearing behind the material of his shirt, but there it was: an ugly, gouging scar bisected over the skin of Malfoy’s bicep — roughly the width of a Hippogriff’s talon. “It goes all the way up to my clavicle,” Malfoy added, looking grimly satisfied. “Though I’d prefer not to take off the rest of my clothes in a crowded restaurant to prove it.”

Harry realised his hand was hovering over the table as though it had decided on its own to touch Malfoy’s scar. He lowered it and looked at the clothes Malfoy had indicated, a blue shirt and navy tie, both askew, like his hair had been when he’d walked in. There was something about Malfoy like that, a vulnerable quality that seemed to live just under his first layer of clothes, that made it easier for Harry’s brain to distinguish between the man sitting before him and the Malfoy who’d done his level best to antagonise Harry for years. 

Harry was pretty sure that wasn’t a good thing. 

He reached for his drink, finishing it off in two swallows. It was smooth, and the scald of it down to his stomach distracted him enough from the direction of his own thoughts until Malfoy chuckled. 

“Did you really think I’d deliberately miss the opportunity to fly against you?” Malfoy asked. Harry darted him another glance, then looked away from Malfoy’s humourless smile a second before he went on, “Madam Pomfrey didn’t store the same amount of Dittany before Snape began supplying her with it, after this scarred so badly.”

Harry’s eyes went wide, flying back up to Malfoy’s face. It wasn’t exactly like taking a Stunner — and Harry’d taken enough of them to make the comparison — but it wasn’t… _not_ like that. His face flooded with heat and he fumbled his tumbler back onto the table, wondering what it said about him that it had never even occurred to him to _ask_ if… If...

“No, I wasn’t thinking— of—” Harry exhaled, shaking his head at the automatic defence that rose. _You’re the one who—!_ “Good,” he said instead. “I mean— not that she didn’t. But that Snape did.”

He couldn’t quite bring himself to apologise, but it seemed like his fluster was enough for Malfoy, who nodded silently and looked down at his bared arm, abruptly smoothing down his sleeve. A small, embarrassed grimace pulling his brow tight, Malfoy deftly fit his cufflink back into place, then ran a hand down his rumpled shirt and tightened the knot of his tie. 

“So what on earth did Granger send you to me for?” Malfoy asked. “Or was she just having an off day?”

“She doesn’t really have off days,” Harry admitted, albeit more than a little grudgingly. “Unless she’s angry with me and I don’t know it — but she usually lets me know.” And he still had all of his body hair, which Harry felt was a pretty good indicator. He went quiet as the waitress brought over two more drinks and their food, some sort of delicate risotto with asparagus for Malfoy, and what looked like an entire chicken off the bone and mashed potatoes for Harry. Everything was topped in a creamy sauce that floated whole mushrooms through it, and as the scent wafted up to meet him, Harry’s stomach rumbled, mortifyingly loud. “This looks good.”

Malfoy had already tucked into his risotto. Without looking up, he said, “It ought to; you’re paying enough for it.” Harry did a double-take at that, but as he was deciding whether he should let it go, Malfoy swallowed his next bite, patted his lips with his napkin, and added, “Eat. You’ve lost weight since I saw you last, and I can only guess what they’d do to me if the Chosen One were to pass out from malnutrition at my feet.”

“Should we talk about that?” Harry asked, cutting into his chicken. It was so tender, the side of his fork did the job for him. He spared Malfoy a glance as he took the first bite, and then his eyes fell shut and he couldn’t completely refrain from moaning. “ _God._ ” He opened his eyes to find Malfoy staring at him, his fork suspended midair. Harry flushed and Malfoy looked back down at his plate. 

“Talk about what?” he muttered. “How you look ready to wilt away or your atrocious lack of table manners?”

Harry took a bigger bite to irritate him, then another, barely pausing between them to say, “I’m working so much I sometimes forget to eat, and if you didn’t want to see me do it you probably shouldn’t have ordered for me.” He took another bite, suddenly ravenous. “And I meant—”

“I _know_ what you meant, Potter.” Malfoy licked the shine from his lips, and said, “I was drunk and you were there. I’ve kept my head down since.”

“So merely being drunk in my presence is enough to set that off?” Harry asked, raising an eyebrow when Malfoy lifted his drink. “Maybe you shouldn’t—”

“Oh shut it. Being in your presence, drunk or no, has _always_ been enough to set that off,” Malfoy said, not meeting his eye, “but there were some other factors at play that day and no, we aren’t going to talk about them, and if you need me to apologise for my behaviour before you tell me what the bloody fuck we’re doing here, I might as well ask them to wrap up my meal to take home.” 

Harry returned to his meal. He didn’t particularly want to relive it either, disturbed even at the recollection of Malfoy’s bloodshot and red-rimmed eyes, and the way he’d staggered up, pinched and ashen, to yell obscenities and blame Harry in general for the ruination of his life — at all of twenty-one. Harry could still feel the crawling rage he’d felt when he thought about it, the urge to haul Malfoy in for public drunkenness out of sheer spite for how _unfair_ it had all been; as far as people their age went, Malfoy seemed to have a lot less than others to complain about. But what ended up sticking with Harry more, in the days and weeks that followed, was the way Malfoy had dissolved into broken sobs when Pansy Parkinson had Apparated in out of nowhere and pulled him close. The way Malfoy’s shoulders had rounded and shook as she hushed him and smoothed his hair back, her eyes gleaming with tears.

 _Go,_ she’d mouthed over Malfoy’s shoulder. _Just go,_ and Harry had gone.

He’d never been able to piece together any sort of reason for Malfoy’s outburst. His parents were healthy, by all accounts — though that probably wouldn’t be the case if Lucius ended up spending his full twenty years in Azkaban — and Malfoy had been recently released from his own sentence, able to travel out of Wiltshire again; Harry'd even relinquished Malfoy's wand to the DMLE for return once Malfoy was allowed to use one again. But then the three years mandatory patrol time Harry had to serve as he trained had ended, and the department had made him investigator and then given him lead, piling him with so many cases that Harry hadn’t time to think, let alone ponder the curious few moments between him and Malfoy in that pub. They’d been relegated to a once-in-a-while sour taste in the back of his mouth as he fell asleep at night. 

Harry’s chewing slowed as he considered, and then he swallowed and said, “I need etiquette lessons. Or something to that effect.”

Malfoy snorted. “Colour me astonished,” he said, aiming a pointed glance at Harry’s plate. But he was paying attention, so Harry huffed and set his fork down.

“I’ve got five weeks to learn the finer points of socialising with— everyone I’d be required to socialise with as Head Auror,” he said. “I’ve got to figure out how to charm the press — or at least not hex them to pieces when they approach — and politely turn aside stalkers, and dress in a way that the Wizengamot approves of and, I don’t know, hell, dance without breaking someone’s toes or ripping their clothes off—”

“I read about that one,” Malfoy said with a smirk. “Not one of your finer moments, but it did amuse.”

“Well, it didn’t amuse her father, who I’ve been told ensures that there are six months worth of red tape any time one of our investigations leads us into Spain,” Harry snapped. “Mariana was barely eighteen, on her first trip out to London, and dancing with the one person whose identity pretty much guaranteed photos would make it back to her local papers.”

“Even better,” Malfoy said, smirk broadening into a grin. He made a little assessing noise. “Though not from her perspective, of course. I can only speak for my own. Next time, try dancing with the wife. Politician’s wives are a lot harder to embarass; you’d be surprised at how easily they can laugh at themselves.”

“Thanks so much,” Harry said dourly. “I guess I should have found him a wife while I was at it, too.”

“Mm.” Looking vaguely interested, he nodded at Harry’s uniform. “And the wardrobe? As far as I can tell, even the Head Auror wears robes.”

“Only on a case,” Harry said. 

“So you’d still be working cases.”

“Yeah. Except,” Harry sighed, “I’d get to pick my own cases and supervise the rest. Train incoming Aurors. _Delegate._ Argue directly with the Wizengamot over the budget we’re alloted and hire new staff. I might even be able to take some of the holiday time I’ve accrued. And the only thing that’s stopping me is—” 

Malfoy said, “You.”

“Brilliant,” Harry said, pulling a face. “I was really hoping that’d take off.”

“What?”

“Nevermind.” Harry hand-waved it away and devoted a few more minutes to his dinner. There was something to be said for having a meal with someone who, despite Malfoy’s admonishments, didn’t seem to particularly care whether Harry ate or got up and walked away, or even if he fainted from hunger; for the first time in a while, Harry thought he might be able to finish. “Why did Hermione think you might be able to help?”

Taking a breath, Malfoy spent several seconds using his fork to fluff the negligible amount of risotto he had left. “Maybe she can see how much the services I offer might—”

“Malfoy.”

Malfoy shot him a withering look. Sitting up straighter, he said, “I worked, for a time, doing... that.”

“Being a wizard masseuse?”

“You wish,” Malfoy said scornfully. “I’m a licensed magical massage _therapist_ , thank you. But no—” He cut himself off and Harry watched, fascinated, as Malfoy looked to have a whole argument in his head before continuing as though there’d been no pause, “—I meant, giving etiquette lessons. For Muggleborn children.” 

He twisted his napkin ‘round his fingers, a nervous gesture. But his jaw was tight, and he seemed affronted by Harry’s prolonged silence. In truth, Harry wasn’t sure he oughtn’t be; teaching etiquette sounded like such a… a self-indulgent job to take on. Making sure that kids were well dressed and knew their forks, or wouldn’t embarrass their parents at posh luncheons. Teaching them to be seen and not heard. 

“Why that?” Harry settled on asking. Malfoy ground his teeth together, and Harry held up a hand. “I just mean—”

“What was I supposed to do, starve to death?” Malfoy clipped out, eyes like flint. “You don’t know what it— I had to support myself somehow, had to gain capital. Even if there’d been someone who was willing to hire me after I was released from house arrest, no witch or wizard in their right mind wanted someone who couldn't even... But there were plenty of people who were willing to pay so their children knew how to get along in polite society, and that had been bred into me before birth so I used what tools I had at my disposal, and _just so you know_ ,” he said, words almost running over themselves in his haste, “ _if_ I agree to do this for you, it won't be my idea of a thrilling time, either, so you can wipe that fucking look off your face.” 

He was breathing hard when he finished, two high spots of red colouring his cheeks, everything said so fast, as though it had been trapped inside him for years. It was just as he’d been in school, never able to hold back a quip or nasty joke for very long before spouting off — dramatic and petulant to the last. 

Except this time Harry didn’t think his dramatics were a bid for attention. As fast as he’d spoken, Malfoy couldn’t hide the roughness of his voice, the defensive tension in the line of his neck. He hadn’t liked telling Harry any of that, wasn’t aiming for sympathy or trying to impress. 

Harry nodded slowly. “How much?”

"You assume I'm not doing it because you'd be a step up from the arsehole currently in the position?"

"You mean my friend and mentor? A man I trust, who cares deeply about justice?" Harry said, bristling. "No, I assume you've got a history of making sure your interests are taken care of first. So: how much?"

Malfoy exhaled through his nose, clenching a little. “Twenty Galleons per hour—”

“That’s it?” It wasn’t nothing, but Harry’d half-expected Malfoy to demand a look inside his vaults before quoting a price.

“It’s five more than I charge my clients now,” Malfoy said. He pursed his lips. “Plus a favour.”

“Of course,” Harry muttered under his breath. “I can’t abuse my position,” he told Malfoy, frowning. “And I wouldn’t if I could.”

“And for the ‘of course’, the price is now twenty-five.” Malfoy frowned back. “I’ve successfully refrained from running afoul of the law for years now, Potter. Don’t think that didn’t have a lot to do with avoiding _you;_ you’d be the last person I’d come to for that sort of aid.”

That seemed pretty reasonable. Harry shrugged. “What, then?”

Malfoy’s fingertips drummed against the tabletop, pinky to index, a swift, rolling beat. He _tsk_ ed. “Honestly, I think it’s a stretch that I’ll be able to teach you how not to look so constipated when you’re talking to strangers—”

“Oi!”

“—but I’m willing to set aside my burgeoning business and try if—”

“What exactly _is_ your ‘burgeoning business’?” Harry asked, irritated. 

“If you’re really not interested, don’t bother trying to wrap your head around it,” Malfoy said loftily. “That’d take me another month to explain it to you and we don’t have that kind of time. So.” He straightened his shoulders, the tendon above his collarbone going taut. “I want you to be a client of mine.”

Harry waited, and when no explanation was forthcoming, said, “Uh, Malfoy?”

“What.”

“Aren’t I going to _be_ a client of yours?” Harry asked.

“A public client of my business,” Malfoy said. “When all of this is said and done, we’ll allow the press to see you coming to my studio, where you’ll spend an hour or two once a week for a few months, and then you’ll mention my services in glowing terms to the press—”

“I’d have to understand what they are first,” Harry said resentfully. “I’m getting conversational whiplash.” 

“— _something_ ,” Malfoy continued, talking over him, “you’ll be able to do graciously, once I’m done with you. _And_ be able to steer yourself around confusing conversations,” Malfoy said. He huffed quietly. “Most of it is bullshitting, and you mastered that at twelve.”

“I—” Harry hesitated, unsure if Malfoy was insulting him or complimenting him. “Why do you—”

“Because you’re a trendsetter. Whether you want to be or not,” Malfoy said, “and even though whatever’s happened to you in the last few years has turned you into an absolute wreck in front of people. They patronise the clubs you’re— you _used to be_ seen at, they buy the groceries they’re able to spot you carrying in pictures; hell, you can’t walk through Diagon Alley without running across some desperate character with a lightning bolt tattooed on their forehead. If you come to me, they will too.” Malfoy dropped his napkin onto his near-empty plate, then pushed it away. He rose, his jumper held fast in one hand. “It’s a win-win, but it’s up to you.” 

Harry didn’t have a real objection to Malfoy’s terms — other than he’d have to deal with the press, and that was part of the bargain regardless — but he let Malfoy stand there, awkward in the aisle next to their booth, as he pretended to consider. “What if it doesn’t work and I don’t get the job?”

Malfoy made an offended sound, glaring down at him. “I’m supposed to have a stake in the results? That’s not the way this works, Potter.”

“But would you really want me as a public client if I’m such an embarrassment after your lessons that I make a scene at the Ministry gala?” Harry asked. 

“You’re _Harry Potter_ ,” Malfoy snapped. “The incident with that girl’s gown may have looked bad politically, but half the witches and wizards in London charmed their clothing indecent for the next three months.”

Well, that explained a lot. Harry distinctly remembered that period for how odd it had been; almost everyone he came across seemed to have a strategically-placed gape in their robes that had shown their undergarments — and quite a bit more, sometimes, when they didn’t wear any. It had got to the point where the Ministry had to institute a formally acknowledged dress code, and after awhile people stopped doing it in general as well. Harry had just assumed it was a fashion trend made up by teenagers that had caught on.

He shrugged and met Malfoy’s eyes. “But what if I’m _too_ polite?” he asked. “I mean, at a certain point, the use of etiquette might be considered offensive in itself, right?”

“What?” Malfoy shook his head, a half-grimace twisting his mouth, and Harry bit down on his lips. “Potter, are you mad? The whole point is— Oh sod _off_!” he said when Harry grinned. Malfoy flushed. “Have any of these been _actual_ questions, or were you going to accept my terms anyway?”

“Probably would have even before I heard them,” Harry said unapologetically. 

Malfoy clenched his jaw. With extreme patience, he said, “And just for _that_ , it’s now thirty.”

“Whatever.” 

“Fine. Good lord, what have I got myself—” Malfoy’s chest deflated with an angry exhale, and he said, “I’m done with you for tonight. We’ll go over specifics tomorrow. Be at my studio at ten.”

“But—” 

“Good _bye_ , Potter,” Malfoy said, and promptly strode for the door. 

Harry watched him leave, narrow shoulders far more rigidly set as he skirted neatly around a cluster of people waiting for a table than Harry thought his stupid joke warranted. He sighed and started to slump back, but was jarred upright when the server approached again to set down a small dessert bowl in front of him. 

“What’s this?” The small mound in the centre of the plate was covered in a sticky, toffee-coloured glaze, and topped with a scoop of melting ice cream. Harry poked at it with one of the two spoons propped carefully in the bowl.

“Burnt banana-and-butterscotch tarte tatin,” she said, “with rum and raisin ice cream. When he arrived, your partner asked for whatever in our selection someone who loved treacle tart might enjoy. This is very sweet — but divine. Will he not be joining you?” 

“Oh. No.” Harry remembered to look up at her again after a moment. He forced a smile. “Thanks. If I could have the bill, please?”

“Of course.”

She scurried away, and Harry brought the glaze-streaked spoon up to his mouth. 

It wasn’t treacle tart, but it was delicious nonetheless.


	2. Chapter 2

_Malfoy,_

_You left before I could tell you that I work on Saturdays, but Sunday is a half-day for me so I can be there at two if you’re free. I liked the banana butterscotch thing. Thanks._

_Harry_

_Hermione,_

_What the hell?? You could have warned me, you know. What are you doing for him? Does Ron know about your mysterious mission to help Draco Malfoy, of all people? I’m telling on you._

_Harry_

_Harry,_

_Actually I couldn’t have told you. Legally or ethically. I couldn't even hint to you beyond a certain degree, even if I needed to warn you about something. And I can’t say any more about it. _

_Go ahead and tell Ron, I can’t stop you. But mind yourself before you get him all worked up, and remember I Polyjuiced into you once, so I’m aware of your current basic proportions. I doubt you’d enjoy waking up to different ones._

_Will you be at the Burrow Sunday night? Molly’s been asking after you._

_Love,  
Hermione_

_Hermione,_

_What Ron doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Not sure about Sunday, might have an appointment with Malfoy._

_Harry_

*

_Potter,_

_Please excuse my tardy reply, I was busy leaping for joy for having made a guess to your dessert preferences that required no calculation whatsoever. I’m glad it met with your approval — and is a lesson in itself: always have background on the people with whom you’ll be socialising._

_Tomorrow afternoon is fine, but further cancellations will cost you two hours’ worth of Galleons, to be deposited into my vault before I agree to reschedule again. I do have clients, you know._

_D.L.M._

_Malfoy,_

_Whatever._

_HJP_

_Potter,_

_I’m serious!_

_D.L.M._

*

_To Gringotts Bank:_

_I hereby authorise the total sum of sixty Galleons to be withdrawn from my vault and deposited into that of Draco Lucius Malfoy. Cancellation fee._

_Verified Magical Signature,  
Harry James Potter_

_Malfoy,_

_Sorry, I had to work late. I have another half day on Wednesday. Any availability?_

_Harry_

_Potter,_

_Whatever. Two o’clock._

_D.L.M._

*

_Harry,_

_Hermione said you might show last night. I’m guessing work? Mum’s a bit worried about you, drop her an Owl, would you? Come on down to the shop for lunch if you have time this week, I want to run my anniversary present to Hermione past you._

_Ron_

_Ron,_

_Sorry!! Yeah, it was work— and boring. I’ll try to come by, don’t know if I’ll be able to. Maybe Thursday night again._

_Harry_

_Molly,_

_Just wanted to let you know I’m sorry I missed dinner again! Doing fine here, working hard to protect the public (by writing up lots of reports, mainly). Let me know you and Arthur are doing well. Love to you both._

_Harry_

_Harry,_

_Arthur is fine, simply nursing his shoulder after the incident with that vibrating Muggle toothbrush. And I’m doing well, though I do worry about you. But I’m proud you’re so dedicated, and I hope you enjoy the treacle tart — I just happened to be making a batch when I got your Owl._

_Much love,  
Molly_

*

_To Gringotts Bank:_

_I hereby authorise the total sum of sixty Galleons to be withdrawn from my vault and deposited into that of Draco Lucius Malfoy. Cancellation fee._

_Verified Magical Signature,  
Harry James Potter_

_Malfoy,_

_Sorry again, unavoidable. Sunday at two?_

_Harry_

_Potter,_

_It’s your waste of gold, not mine. I am, in fact, free on Sunday at two._

_D.L.M_

*

_To Gringotts Bank:_

_I hereby authorise the total sum of sixty Galleons to be withdrawn from my vault and deposited into that of Draco Lucius Malfoy. Cancellation fee._

_Verified Magical Signature,  
Harry James Potter_

_Malfoy,_

_I literally just got home. Wednesday?_

_Harry_

* * *

“Hold your bloody horses!” Harry croaked, staggering for the door and brushing stray grit from his eyes. He absently pulled his wand, not in the least inclined to show compassion for whatever blasted sociopath had been inspired to wake him up in the middle of the night, and yanked the door open. “ _What!_ ”

Malfoy shoved past Harry, nearly knocking him into the wall. “‘What?’” he demanded, waving a crumpled ball of parchment in Harry’s face. “Did you really just ask me _’what’_?”

“You woke me up,” Harry said. He pushed the door shut, tucking his wand back into his holster; he didn’t need further temptation to kill Malfoy. 

“Yes, _so_ sorry.” Malfoy glared at him and crossed his arms, bare foot smacking a fast thump against Harry’s floor. “Because I was _awake_ , just waiting for your Owl at half-one in the morning!”

Harry stopped. He Summoned his glasses from the sofa and shoved them on, vision clearing. Malfoy was in pyjamas, tatty, green-flanneled things that were nearly worn through and hung, overlarge, on his frame, and his hair was rumpled flat on the left side of his head and sticking straight up on the right, matching, almost perfectly, the pillow crease he sported on that cheek. He looked frankly mad, and maddened, and Harry gulped back a laugh before it got him killed. He held up both hands, placatingly. 

“Sorry, okay? I’ve been pulling overtime — I don’t always, but two of the Aurors were out with the flu — and I haven’t been sleeping much,” he said. “I really just didn’t… think before sending the Owl. I barely had time to send Gringotts an authorisation for sending you my cancellation fee this afternoon.” He yawned widely and headed back to the sofa. “I fell asleep not two minutes after writing your Owl.”

Malfoy’s jaw flexed. “Look, Potter. Not that I’m particularly bothered by your indifference to money, but I only opened just before winter hols. I can’t simply leave empty slots in my schedule for when you _might_ be available — as though I’m the one who asked me!” 

“Are you still half asleep too?” Harry asked, flopping down. “Because that didn’t make any sense.” He ran a hand down the long line of diagonal brass buttons from the shoulder of his robes to his hip, shrugging his robes off when they came undone. Draping them over the back of the sofa, he unstrapped his holster from his thigh. Honestly, it was probably a good thing Malfoy’d woken him; the last time he’d fallen asleep in uniform, he’d had a bruise-ring around his thigh for a week.

“I—” Malfoy paused, throat bobbing, and shifted from foot to foot. His gaze flicked over Harry’s face. “Yeah.”

“So can we work this out tomorrow? I’m so tired they need a new name for it.”

“No!” Malfoy ran an agitated hand through his hair, disrupting the lovely, snowy mess of it. Harry snorted at the look on Malfoy’s face; he seemed as though he was on the the verge of stamping his foot. “What I—” Malfoy took a deep breath. “Find someone else, Potter. There are plenty of etiquette instructors in England; hire one of them.”

Harry sat up, pushing away another urge to yawn. “And how many of them can tell me both the magical and Muggle things I’ll need to know?”

“Then get one of each,” Malfoy said. “A Muggle instructor can carry you through the finer points of polite society, and any pureblood—”

“Not Ron. He’s as informal as it gets.”

“He’s a _Weasley,_ ” Malfoy said. He added a faint sneer for good measure, but just as Harry was about to reach for his holster resting beside him, Malfoy twitched one bony shoulder. “And even he probably knows quite a bit you could use. Not that his family appreciates what they know. Anyway, consider our agreement void; I’m not about to spend the next month on a lost cause.”

Harry scowled. “I was _working._ Sorry if it doesn’t look like what you’re familiar with, but—”

“You’re running yourself to the bone.” Malfoy tipped his gaze up to the ceiling and shook his head. “Potter, selfless heroics may sell papers, but they’ll only advance careers to a certain point.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Harry asked tightly. “I’m doing what’s required to—”

“Oh _really_?” Malfoy said, lips curving in a mocking smile. “And how many times have you seen those friends of yours since you met with me? How many times have you actually made it home to sleep? I bet they have a room down at the DMLE just for that. Right? So Aurors on-duty can have a kip? S’that where you spend most of your nights, Potter? Bet you do it even when you’re not on schedule.”

“Shut it,” Harry snapped. His hands had curled into fists, a low-level heat rolling behind his ribcage. That Malfoy would even presume that it was okay to dive into his life, after one dinner and a handful of Owls… Malfoy knew nothing about him — _nothing_. “You don’t even know what you’re on about. I love my job. Head Auror _often_ has to work odd hours—”

“I see,” Malfoy murmured, a smug little tilt to his mouth. “So then I guess that means your precious Robards stays all night, too. Snoring away on the sofa opposite you in _his_ ,” he said pointedly, “office. Never takes any holiday time, holds up the department single-handedly, rarely goes home to dinner or has lunch dates?”

“No!” Livid, Harry scrambled up from the sofa and stalked close to him, stabbing a finger against Malfoy’s chest. “I mean— You don’t have the right to just come in here and—”

“I have _every_ right, Potter,” Malfoy said, voice dripping with disdain. He looked Harry up and down. “Not only have you made me turn away clients who probably won’t be back, you practically begged me for a wake-up call when you woke me up in the middle of the night.” He turned and walked towards the door but paused just before he got to it, twisting to look at Harry over his shoulder. “Don’t open the door next time if you don’t want to hear it.”

“I won’t!” Harry shouted, following close on his heels. Malfoy huffed a taunting laugh and wrenched the door open. The cool air hit Harry’s hot cheeks and Harry was sure he meant to grab the door, to slam it shut behind Malfoy — he was _sure_ of it — but his hand landed on Malfoy’s shoulder instead, and he whirled Malfoy around to face him. 

Malfoy set his jaw but couldn’t hide his alarm; he tried to back up a step, and when that didn’t work, jerked away from Harry’s hold on him. 

“Wait,” Harry said. His heart pounded at a sickening pace, and he felt disoriented and vaguely ill, the base of his skull and his shoulders aching with tension. “Wait. Malfoy. I— I want this job and,” he swallowed, “I need your help. I’m— I can’t keep—”

The mutinous fury on Malfoy’s face slowly shifted into wariness. “For fuck’s sake, Potter, when was the last time you got a full night’s sleep?”

Not expecting that response, Harry opened his mouth — only to promptly close it when Malfoy’s hand found his forehead. It was cool and dry and heavenly against the burn of Harry’s skin… But it was also Malfoy, so after allowing it for a moment, Harry pulled away. 

“A while,” he admitted, adding, before Malfoy could accuse him of anything, “but I’m not sick, if you thought— I wouldn’t risk people at work by going in sick. Nor am I dosing with energy potions or Motivational charms. I do take time off when necessary. I just—”

“That’s just what happens to wizards who push themselves for too long,” Malfoy said evenly. “I’m aware. But it only starts as a mild fever. Keep on and you really will get sick. You know, what I do — what I _really_ do — would help, too.”

Harry cracked a laugh. Shrugged. “I’ll show up on Wednesday for the lessons, I swear. This week has been worse than usual; about a year’s worth of reports had been misfiled at the beginning of ‘98, when Voldemort was—” He stopped at Malfoy’s quickly-drawn breath. “We discovered them last Saturday, and I had to track down the original sources and refile them on top of the rest of my work. But I finished the last of them today, so I should be able to—”

“Take two half-days off per week again?” Malfoy asked, arching a brow. 

Harry nodded and stepped back, glancing at the open door. Malfoy hesitated, then closed it behind him, and Harry made his way back to the sitting room, reassured by the lighter tread following him. He flicked a hand at the bundle of clothes in his side chair to send them to the laundry bin near the fireplace and sank back onto the sofa, holding his breath until Malfoy lowered reluctantly into the seat. 

Malfoy looked around, a disapproving crease forming on one side of his mouth when he spotted Harry’s pillow at one end of the sofa. “I don’t suppose you ever actually use your bed.”

“Not for sleeping, lately,” Harry said, quirking an automatic grin Malfoy’s way and sobering when Malfoy gave him a startled glance and pinked up. “Sorry. I do, yeah. Haven’t in…” He shrugged, scratching over the stubble on his jaw. It was getting long, but he distinctly remembered shaving a few days ago, when he had, in point of fact, managed to make it to bed before passing out. He’d slept too deeply that night and ended up being late — relatively speaking. “Three or four days. Why? You can’t be too tired to Apparate home.”

“Of course not,” Malfoy said, looking hunted. “I mean, yes, I’m tired but— I was only—” He scooted back a little further in the chair and crossed his legs, hunching a little. “It’s not good for your back.”

Interested at his fluster, Harry studied him in silence as Malfoy seemed to examine every item in the room before looking back to Harry — and then instantly away. He tugged on the hem of his pyjama top and scratched the side of his thigh, settled, and resumed fidgeting, his foot popping an erratic beat in the air. Harry frowned; his investigative senses were tweaked and he could tell he was missing something, but was too tired to put it together.

Malfoy looked good, though. At home and comfortable even in his discomfort, the shadows of sleep already chased from his pointy, aristocratic face. And Merlin, posh, even in threadbare pyjamas, the elegant arch at the bottom of his pale foot drawing Harry’s attention. His toes were scattered with golden hair, and the almost-delicate knob of his ankle peeked out from where his bottoms had hiked up. His legs were so… _long._ Well muscled, lean, the outline of his calf plumping just enough under the material of his bottoms that Harry could make it out. Harry had the sudden urge to run his tongue along that arch, to mouth at Malfoy’s ankle, to follow up the line of his calf—

“I’ll do it,” Malfoy said. Harry jumped in place, horrified and turned on and not nearly as angry as he probably should be that Malfoy was using Legilimency on him — but after a second that went on for about six years, he was able to unscramble his brain enough to realise that Malfoy hadn’t noticed anything. Harry tried to make the grab for his pillow look casual, putting it over his lap and pasting on his most earnest smile. Malfoy cleared his throat. “But I have some conditions.”

“Uh huh, yeah,” Harry said. “I mean, sure. What conditions?” The warmth of his face was less distracting than the skittery shocks of desire lengthening his cock — but more visible, so he could only hope Malfoy would attribute the colour of his complexion to lack of sleep. He widened his eyes to show he was listening; his cheeks were starting to hurt. “Name them.”

Malfoy looked at him like he was insane. “Have you got something in your eye?”

Harry yelped a laugh and rubbed his eyes under his glasses. He gave himself a moment to moderate his breath, then looked up and said, “No, just— I don’t want to fall asleep on you.” Except that he actually… might enjoy falling asleep on Malfoy. Fuck, this was bad. Harry laughed again. “So if we could—”

“Right.” Malfoy gave him a suspicious look, rubbing the back of his neck. The sleeve of his pyjamas slid down and Harry’s gaze wandered to the pale blue map of Malfoy’s veins visible under the creamy skin at the inside of his wrist. Exasperated with both of them, Harry wanted to lick him there, too. He took off his glasses entirely and dropped them on the side table, apparently too tired to deal with Malfoy in sharp focus, just as Malfoy said, “Well, that’s one of my conditions. Sleep. Eat properly. Consider letting me take care of that mess around your magical atmosphere, but if not— at least do me the consideration of not getting me arrested for being in your general vicinity when you can’t maintain your health any longer.”

“Yeah.” Harry bobbed his head. “Sleep, eat. I can do that.”

“And take some holiday time.” Malfoy shook his head at Harry’s open mouth, his own turning down grimly. “Let the current Head Auror shoulder some of his actual work for a while. I’ve been thinking on it, and I don’t think two hours per week will be enough. We’d be lucky to do it in six months on that time table; there’s no way we can accomplish it in one.”

“But that’s when the Ministry gala is,” Harry said. “The Wizengamot will be putting the position to a private vote the following Monday. _That’s_ my timetable!”

“Which is why you take time off.” Malfoy sniffed. “Oh, put it away, Potter. I’m not demanding an eternal work-life balance out of you.”

“Malfoy!”

“Take it,” Malfoy said, “or don’t.”

Harry paused. The crushing seriousness of Malfoy’s tone finally sank in, blotting out the direction of Harry’s thoughts. He gulped once— nodded. “Yeah. Okay.” He tilted his head up Malfoy, who was staring down at him with a small frown pinching the bridge of his nose, and said, “Okay. I’ll Owl— either way.”

Malfoy’s lips parted. “No,” he said. “I don’t trust you’ll do it at a decent hour.” His tongue darted over his lower lip, a strangely unsure gesture. “Be there on time Wednesday or I’m not rescheduling you again.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Harry!” Ron looked up from where he was crouched next to a half-Transfigured… thing, and stood, pulling off his helmet. He stepped in to give Harry a hug, a careless thing that still felt too brief. Harry tightened his arms to prolong it another beat, and when he pulled away, the smile Ron wore was perplexed. “Are you okay?” 

“Pfft.” Harry shrugged and propped himself on the corner of a dining table. He shot back off. “What the hell?”

Ron winced. “Yeah, a customer commissioned warming charms on it, and getting the temperature right is a little tricky; I’ve been having to experiment.” 

“Was one of those experiments utilising heat from the _sun?_ I think it singed off hair.” Harry rubbed his arse, scowling. He turned. “Did it burn through my jeans?”

“If it did, would you trust me to tell you?” 

“Fair point.” Harry snorted and twisted to check, feeling for holes in the denim. It was warm, but as far as he could tell, not damaged. “Anywhere safe to sit?” 

Ron pointed to a small leather sofa against the wall of his workspace. “It’s just charmed to wick excessive moisture away from skin,” he said when Harry hesitated. He waggled his eyebrows. “I think the buyers have _plans_ for it. But it’s perfectly normal otherwise.” 

It was, Harry found upon sitting down. And better still, it was incredibly comfortable, like all of Ron’s furniture. Harry ran an appreciative hand over the buttery soft material. “Is this dragonhide?”

“Yeah.” Ron peeled off his apron and sat down next to him, exhaling a sigh of pleasure. “Ukranian Ironbelly. Charlie’s reserve has been selling sheddings to me for a good price when they can’t use them. Usually the way they molt, you barely get pieces big enough for a pair of boots, maybe a jacket. But one of the dragons had an unexpected growth spurt at nearly fifty and when Charlie asked if I could use it, I jumped at the chance. I’ve got enough for something else, I think. Maybe a chair.”

“If no one asks for it specifically, I might want it,” Harry said, shifting to let the cushions mould to his body. They had just the right amount of give, soft but firm, and the treated hide was nothing short of decadent. He raised his head with some effort, sounding drugged to his own ears when he said, “Actually, nevermind. I do want it. I’ll commission it from you. God, this is nice.”

Ron flushed, pleased and proud. “I’ll tell you what: it’ll be my birthday gift to you.”

“You’ve gifted me furniture up through my fortieth birthday,” Harry said. “You have to let me pay you some time.”

“Fine, then when you’re forty-one, you can pay me,” Ron said, still smiling but brooking no argument. He sat back, studying Harry intently. In a tone of surprise, he said, “You’re not wearing your Auror robes.”

“It’s Wednesday afternoon.”

Ron narrowed his eyes. “I don’t think I’ve seen you out of your uniform in a year.”

“Yeah.” 

Sighing, Harry looked around at the furniture in varying states of readiness: another sofa that hadn’t been filled or covered yet, a homey kitchen table sans chairs, a bed frame styled out of rich mahogany, the intricate pattern on the headboard only partially carved. Near the back of the workspace were the shelves where Ron kept most of his materials, the tables where he drafted his ideas. Harry felt a sudden pang of sadness at the memories that flooded him — he and Hermione sitting around those tables before life got busy, eating pizza or curry and listening indulgently as Ron talked about his plans. His shop had been open for four years running, something Ron never seemed any less surprised by, though Harry could still remember the shine in his eyes when he'd first tentatively brought up leaving Auror training to pursue this; Ron was astonishingly good with his hands and had grown up watching Arthur add onto the Burrow and craft furniture for their family out of mere scraps. 

“Harry, what’s going on?” Ron asked. 

“I took some holiday time,” Harry said, bracing himself. And it turned out for good reason, because:

“ _What?_ ” Ron bellowed. “I didn’t even think you were here for lunch!” He couldn’t have looked more astonished if Harry’d brought him cake and then randomly stabbed him, and Harry’s nostalgia faded into a fond sort of exasperation — until Ron slapped his hand over Harry’s whole face and started groping at it. “This is Harry, right?”

“Leggo!” Harry said, muffled, into Ron’s palm as he shoved Ron’s arm away. Ron rocked back, snickering, and Harry glared at him and rubbed at his mouth with the collar of his t-shirt. “I can taste your _hand._ ”

“You never seem to have a problem tasting anything on other men,” Ron said, smiling wider when Harry muttered “ _gross_ ” under his breath.

“I haven’t done much tasting in the last year, either,” Harry said, still trying to rub the salty flavour of Ron’s skin from his lips. God, and his glasses were smudged and sweaty now, too. He took them off, casting a quick charm at them. Replacing them, he said, “And Hermione wouldn’t have half the problem I would if I ever wanted to taste _you_ , thanks.”

Ron seemed to consider. “Probably not, she’s pretty open about—” He flashed Harry a sheepish look. “Well, stuff.”

“And I can die happy for you knowing it,” Harry said dryly, disgusted on all fronts. 

“At least you won’t die from exhaustion or malnutrition.” Ron said it cheerfully enough, but concern furrowed his forehead. “So how long are you taking? A few days? A week?” 

Harry left off trying to wipe off his tongue. “Three. Weeks, I mean.”

Ron whistled, long and low, through his teeth. “I’d wager Robards didn’t take that very well.”

“He did, actually. Poured me a drink and encouraged me to take an extra week to ‘recharge’,” Harry said. “Apparently I haven’t taken any of my holiday time in the last few years except when I’ve gotten injured, and that tends to be frowned upon.”

“Should be bloody illegal,” Ron said. “And now you’re stricken with guilt, right? Feel like you’re leaving them in a lurch?”

“I’ve pretty much been sleeping since Monday night,” Harry said, “so no.” Ron raised an expectant eyebrow and Harry rolled his eyes. “All right, a little. Robards had just sent a pile of cold cases to my desk, and the department is overburdened, and a few members of the Wizengamot are going to be spending weeks nosing about our offices after this filing blunder we found last Sunday, thanks to Shacklebolt’s transparency policy—”

“Whoa, hey.” Ron frowned. “What’s that about, with Shacklebolt? He’s done more for the Ministry than the last four Ministers combined. And he’s always been good to us, to you. Right?”

“Yeah, but…” Harry removed his glasses again and dug a knuckle against his eye, where the headache was starting to form. “Yeah. You’re right. He’s just been hard to pin down for awhile. And he voted against an increase in our budget—”

“So he’s the reason Robards can’t hire more Aurors?” Ron finished, frowning deeper. “There are fifty members on the Wizengamot!”

“I know. Sorry. I just— I guess it’s harder to have perspective when you’re close to it. Robards… He’s been a mentor to me. I see him every day. I trust him.” Harry slanted Ron a wry smile when that didn’t seem to alleviate Ron’s concern. “Stop that. You’ll look a hundred before you’re thirty. I’m on holiday, anyway. I only got out of bed twice yesterday.”

“Soothing charms,” Ron said smugly. “I told you they’d work.”

Harry dipped his head in a modified bow. “I’ll never doubt your furniture again.”

“But this is great!” Ron said with renewed enthusiasm. “We’ll get you fixed up right and proper; maybe the Wizengamot will be able to appreciate everything you do when you’re not at their beck.”

“That’s what Robards said.”

“How’s Hermione’s fellow treating you?”

“Hu—wha?” Harry looked at the sofa they were on again. “What did you say this was, Hebridean Black?”

“Ukrainian Ironbelly,” Ron said, side-eyeing him. 

“Brilliant. Want to get lunch?”

“Harry—”

“Okay, I’m—” Harry blanched, “—not allowed to tell you. It’s a client of hers, and she threatened me with more than hair removal if you got upset and I mean _really_ more, I literally don’t know how we managed to get on her good side after you said no one could stand her—”

“I was eleven!” Ron said. “There was a troll!”

“—because Hermione is vicious, remember when she set Snape’s _robes on fire_ , she was only eleven, too, and you’re like a brother to me, Ron, but I am not going to go against her wishes on this one—”

“This is about Malfoy.”

Harry stopped. Blinked. “Yes. And you’re okay with him?”

“Okay is sort of a strong word,” Ron said. “But, y’know, Hermione has reasons for doing the things she does, and… I trust her.”

As that had become something of a nightly mantra for Harry since she’d referred him to Malfoy’s door, Harry could relate.

“She told you about him?” he asked. “What she’s doing for him?”

“Not exactly. Last November, she had me make this—” Ron gestured in a way that seemed to imply he still didn’t know and made an irritated noise in the back of his throat. “A bed thing? Massage table. She wouldn’t say who it was for, and with all the pro-bono work she does for witches and wizards who had trouble recovering from their losses after the war, I figured it was just about that. But, Merlin, the charms the client wanted inlaid into it — calm and relaxation, emotional balance, clarity of thought, connection, and Dark magic repellants, to name a _few_ — were… expensive. _Really_ expensive. Even with deep discounts because Hermione requested it, it wouldn’t be easy to afford unless someone was really wealthy or—”

“No, he must’ve saved for it,” Harry said absently, thinking of Malfoy’s rant during their dinner, and Ron nodded.

“Right, so I got curious.” Ron directed a guilty little cringe at the ceiling. “I kept on the lookout for new businesses opening, because there was no way that thing was going to be used on Muggles. And when I heard about that place for Magical Revitalisation opening up over the Junk Shop, I cross-checked it for who the owner of the business license was — it’s all public, if you care to look. Incidentally, I’m pretty sure that’s what Hermione did for him, helped him get up and running.”

Harry stared at him, gobsmacked. “Please come back to the department. I’ll pay you out of my own vaults.”

Ron snorted. “Sorry, you’re on your own there. Too stressful.”

“Maybe you should hire Malfoy,” Harry said, grinning. “Magical massage and whatnot.”

“Merlin, can you imagine?” Ron asked. He scoffed. “Magic revitalisation is done wandless, you know, it’s a pretty rare talent, but having Malfoy’s hands on you, _touching_ you, his magic basically _all over_ you—”

Harry cleared his throat. “No, I can’t imagine, no, nope.”

“S’probably why his business is failing,” Ron said. “No one is going to trust a Malfoy to clean out magical static without taking advantage, it’s a pretty vulnerable position to be in. Although,” he added musingly, “if I’m right, the Dark magic repellents lining his table wouldn’t let him.”

“His business is failing?” Harry had the sudden urge to bang his head against a wall. No wonder Malfoy’d been so angry about having to turn away clients. 

“I think so,” Ron said. “Almost no one has been shopping on that side of Diagon lately. Bad location. Too near to Knockturn without any of the taboo appeal. Funny thing is that Malfoy could probably help a lot of people if he can really— well. Anyway.” Ron rose. “You said something about lunch?”

Harry checked his watch. “Yeah, if we’re quick. I’m meeting Malfoy for my first etiquette lesson at two, so I can’t be late.” He allowed himself to be pulled up, and Ron grinned.

“O’course. Wouldn’t that be a tragedy.”

* * *

Harry was _twelve minutes late._

“Come _on_ Malfoy! I’m here, aren’t I?” He rattled the doorknob again, but it didn’t budge. “Don’t you take walk-ins?”

“ _Please examine the welcome sign for adjustments_ ,” came the same, calm — and frankly creepy — woman’s voice Harry heard the first time. He looked at the placard beside the door.

_61B Diagon Alley South_  
Metaphysical Massage and Magical Pathway Revitalisation Therapy  
Est. 2004  
Muggleborns and Walk-Ins Welcome  
EXCEPT FOR HARRY POTTER 

“What are you, nine?” Harry muttered. He raised his voice. “I got held up after lunch, okay? I _was_ on time,” he said, leaving out the ‘mostly’ that would have made the excuse entirely honest, “but a little boy’s cat had tried to swallow a Fairy’s egg sack and he was crying and—” He kicked the door, which shuddered but didn’t, unfortunately, buckle. “Seriously? I’m on holiday time!”

Harry turned on his heel, slumping back against the door. If Malfoy only knew all of the untraceable hexes he’d learned at the DMLE—

“ _Please be advised that the on-call Therapist is currently with a client,_ ” said the woman, adding a taunting, sing-song sort of lilt that made Harry grit his teeth, “ _but will, in the interests of not scaring away other potential walk-ins with your tantrum, graciously allow you to wait inside in exchange for your word that you will do nothing to disrupt the meeting._ ”

Blowing out a breath, Harry swivelled again and tried the door. It stayed stubbornly shut. “Well?” he demanded. Silence answered him and he glared at the door. “I give my bloody word I won’t disrupt your bloody meeting in any bloody way, okay?” 

The knob turned.

Biting back a growl, Harry went in — and instantly faltered. The room, so airy and open before, had shrunk down to the space of a cupboard, hosting only the reception desk and a single chair, a blurry wall thrown up beyond that. 

“ _Please remove your—_ ”

“Yeah, I know,” Harry said ungraciously. He toed off his trainers and signed in, nearly lacerating the page with the nub of the quill provided, then dropped down into the chair to wait. Malfoy’d mentioned charging by the hour so he tipped his head, listening intently to kill time; he could see the shadowy figures beyond the Obscurification screen in place, but not a single sound escaped. 

Though he expected to be made to wait, after a few minutes he heard the click of an invisible door, and then quiet footsteps outside the door Harry came through. The Obscurification screen fell with a shimmer of light, and Harry was suddenly back in the room he’d seen the first time.

And Malfoy was back in those same trousers, too. Harry could see the shift of his cock through them when he moved. God, were pants out of style or something? If so, Harry couldn’t imagine that ‘polite society’ would approve.

Harry stood, schooling his expression into something he hoped read as neither pissed off nor aroused, as Malfoy approached. He trained his eyes on Malfoy’s face — not that that was much better. Pointy as his features still were, he’d either grown into them or Harry no longer hated him enough to overlook how arresting he was. Either way, the result was… not good for Harry’s focus. 

“How much time did you take?” Malfoy asked, stopping by the reception desk.

“Three weeks,” Harry said neutrally.

Malfoy hummed, gaze narrowing to mere slits. He looked as though he was about to declare that impossible to work with, unacceptable, but after a moment said, “I’ve been considering your requirements in order of importance. Clothing, obviously—” he shot a light sneer at Harry’s t-shirt and jeans; unfair in Harry’s opinion, coming from someone whose clothes were practically see-through, “—to give your professional image a bit of an overhaul with some time to spare. I’ll make an appointment or three with a stylist,” he said. “And you’re not as badly regarded in the press as you seem to think — like it or not, Potter, you’ll always be _you_ , and they know better now than to tear down someone so idolised — so that one can possibly wait a bit. I think we’ll make the most out of this by addressing three issues first: table etiquette, pleasantries and proper topics, and your inaccessibility. I assume you’re confident enough in discussing work matters?”

Harry nodded distractedly — work was the one subject about which he always knew what to say — and took a moment to soak in the rest of it. “What do you mean by ‘inaccessibility’?”

“Other than those brief appearances you make for fundraising and, I suppose, frequent jaunts to save the world’s kittens, people don’t _know_ you,” Malfoy said. “They mob you because they want to and you won’t let them, which is a rather easy fix; we just need to control the flow of information. Part of that will be with the press, but most of it will come from interacting with people, who will do half the job of talking you up to journalists looking for a scoop. Good copy, remember? Only tailored for your professional advancement.”

“What are you, my publicist?”

“No, but—” Malfoy frowned and leaned against the side of the desk. “I should have thought of that. You should have one. And I actually know someone who—”

“Then _you_ use them,” Harry muttered. He stood and shoved his hands into his pockets. Stalked past Malfoy into the less confining section of the room and took a few deep breaths. “You sound like Hermione.”

“My good copy comes from not having any until I’m ready for it,” Malfoy drawled from behind him, sounding lazily self-assured. “And hell, Potter, are you telling me that you’re not willing to listen to Granger when it comes to having someone able to spin things for you on retainer, but that, on her say-so, you’re fine putting yourself in my hands? How does that make any sense?”

 _It doesn’t_ , Harry thought, trying to shake off the thought of putting himself in Malfoy’s— anything. 

“Fine, then. So— What now?” Harry asked, turning. He took a step back, jarred to realise Malfoy had come so close and he’d not sensed it. 

“Now you leave,” Malfoy said. “I was taking a preliminary on a walk-in when you showed up, and she’ll be returning in twenty minutes for a session. I need to prepare.”

“You weren’t even _doing_... whatever?” Harry asked. “Then why the discretionary screen?”

Malfoy gave him another one of those looks that made Harry feel stupid. “Wild concept though it may be to you, there’s more to discretion than Glamouring your face when you walk down Diagon Alley, Potter. How would you like to give your medical history to a Healer while someone watched?”

“Or maybe you were doing something you don’t want me to know about.”

“Well,” Malfoy said, “she did have a virgin Hippogriff with her.”

“Very funny.” It was, a little, but Harry felt still too indignant to smile. “We had an appointment! What am I supposed to do now?”

“If it bothers you that much, I’d suggest you be ready when I show up at yours tomorrow,” Malfoy said, face hardening. “As for what you do today— I don’t know. Find out how the other half lives? Go for a ride on the London Eye? I don’t really care; I’ll be having to close up at random times to cater to our bargain over the next few weeks, the least you could do is try not to be an utter arsehole about today, when it was all your fault. Oh, but I forgot,” he added with a sneery expression that he must’ve known would rile Harry up, “you’re either responsible for everything or nothing.”

Harry stubbornly didn’t move — didn’t even reach for his wand, though it was obvious Malfoy was expecting him to. “I’m here and you have a few minutes. Teach me something.”

“How to take a hint when it’s time to go?”

“It’s not a hint when you order me outright,” Harry said. And maybe he had been late, and maybe Malfoy was right that that made it okay for him to cancel — not that Harry agreed — but he hadn’t gotten a reputation for being determined for nothing. He wasn’t going to budge, wasn’t going to give Malfoy the satisfaction without _something_ in return. “Anything else?”

Malfoy studied him, looking just as intractable as Harry felt. Then his shoulders slumped a fraction and he sighed, and swallowed, and held out his hand. “You’re Harry Potter,” he said with a pleasant smile. He drew in a deep breath. “Draco Malfoy.” 

Warily, Harry put his hand in Malfoy’s, shook it. Malfoy’s grip was firm, warm; he held Harry’s hand for a few seconds, and then released it along with the breath he’d been holding. Harry stared at him. “I don’t have amnesia, Malfoy. Or are you teaching me the fine art of handshaking?” 

“Draco,” he said, shoulders going spiky again as though Harry’d done something wrong. “If they’re in your age bracket or younger and give their first name, use it and offer your own. Save the last name rubbish for people you don’t get on with.”

“But we don’t get on,” Harry said, confused.

“Not the point, _Harry,_ ” Malfoy said. “It’s your lesson for today: polite greetings and introductions. You’d never address an Auror of the same rank by their last name when coming across them in a social setting.”

And, well. Harry did actually. They all did, except those who addressed Harry by both title _and_ last name. He didn’t do it with everyone — he wasn’t as hopeless as Malfoy seemed to think — but he could sort of see Malfoy’s general point. He nodded. “Okay. Let’s do that again.”

Malfoy frowned, holding himself very still for a moment before wiping his palm against his trousers and renewing his smile. He held out his hand once more. “Draco Malfoy,” he said. “Pleasure.”

“Hi, Draco,” Harry said. He shook Malfoy’s hand again, squeezed it, clasping over Malfoy’s knuckles with his opposite hand. “Call me Harry. The pleasure’s mine.”

And later, in queue for the Eye, Harry’s mind kept returning to that moment, when Malfoy ripped his hand away and dropped his gaze, voice thick as he’d said his goodbyes before striding off — refusing to meet Harry’s eyes the whole time.

* * *

Harry felt hungover.

Unshaven and sipping his first cuppa, he blearily watched as Malfoy decimated his wardrobe with an exuberance that seemed entirely out of proportion, muttering things like, “Good lord, Harry”, and “He actually thinks he’s still fifteen doesn’t he?”, and “What have I got myself into?”, and Harry’s favourite of the morning: “Did he utilise wizarding space to host all of his band t-shirts?” And Harry might have argued with any or all of those statements simply because he was tired, except then Malfoy would probably make a comparison. If he did, Harry wouldn’t have a leg to stand on; Harry was wearing yesterday’s jeans, hastily pulled on, and the t-shirt he’d fallen asleep in, and Malfoy’d shown up looking fit and finely kitted out in a pair of sharply pleated black trousers that hugged the flare of his arse just so, and a dark patterned green-and-silver tie and matching waistcoat, nipped in at the small of his back by a grey fabric cinch. Harry couldn’t stop looking at that cinch, which didn’t seem to quite go but still stressed the narrowness of Malfoy’s waist, his hips, the lean breadth of his shoulders and the stretch of his height as his body shifted under his clothes with each economical movement he made. 

Lulled by Malfoy’s muttering and still half asleep, Harry considered just sliding sideways and taking a kip as Malfoy got on with it, but then Malfoy tossed a t-shirt in one of the piles — he’d made four — and said, “Burn it,” under his breath, and Harry’s eyes shot open with a burst of adrenaline.

“No, we aren’t _burning_ that,” he said, slugging down the rest of his tea in two burning swallows that almost made him choke. He set his cup aside.

Malfoy didn’t turn. “It has holes in it,” he said dismissively. “And it doesn’t even look as though it’d fit.”

“I like the holes,” Harry said, glaring at his back. He got up and retrieved the shirt from the pile, then started sorting through the rest. It was the biggest pile and, glancing at the others, he deduced all Malfoy was willing to let him keep were his uniforms, a few pairs of boxers, two pairs of jeans that were tight in the crotch, and his dress robes. “We’re not getting rid of all my shirts!”

“You don’t even like them enough to repair them,” Malfoy said, twisting to roll his eyes at Harry over his shoulder. “And you’re never photographed wearing most of those. We’ll buy you a new wardrobe, down to the skin. It’s fine.”

“I don’t care about that, I’m not burning these,” Harry said, picking irately through the pile.

“They’re not fit to donate,” Malfoy argued, finally turning to face him. 

“They were Sirius’s.” Harry looked up at Malfoy’s silence. The short, satiny fall of his pale hair was tousled from the exertion of rifling through Harry’s things, and his expression was caught — troubled. 

Malfoy pressed his lips together and finally nodded, but said, “You should put them in a trunk if you’ve no plans on wearing them.”

“I like looking at them,” Harry admitted softly, running his fingers over the faded, peeling faces of The Clash. It was something he could imagine Sirius wearing, long-haired and angry and rebellious, a lit cigarette hanging from his lips as he and Remus had danced together in some loud, poorly-lit club — deliberately not fixing the seams that were unravelling, to keep the aesthetic. “Maybe my dad even wore it once.” 

He didn’t realise he’d said that out loud until Malfoy cleared his throat and turned back to Harry’s wardrobe. “Regardless,” Malfoy said, strained. “I’m not suggesting you keep the trunk in another flat. Simply that storing them amongst the items you wear isn’t a good way to preserve them. We’ll pick you up a preservation trunk today as well. Or two; one for keepsakes and one for formalwear.”

“How much of my gold are you spending today?”

“Gobs of it,” Malfoy said, tossing a pair of worn joggers that Harry sometimes slept in to the _Burn_ pile. Harry retrieved those too; they were comfortable. Malfoy glanced over his shoulder and huffed. “And for several days hence.”

“‘Hence.’” Harry snorted, carefully folding Sirius’s shirts by hand. 

“Yes, ‘hence.’” Malfoy sounded irritated. “It means— what the bloody hell?”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not what it means,” Harry started, but then Malfoy turned. Flowing like water over his hands was Harry’s Invisibility Cloak, the silvery material reflecting in Malfoy’s huge, silvery eyes. Malfoy blinked several times, and then made a throaty, wordless noise, gesturing at Harry with the Cloak. Harry frowned, feeling vaguely defensive. “What? You’ve seen it before. _Remember?_ ” He tapped his nose sourly. 

“I was too intent on stomping your face to pay much attention,” Malfoy said. “What’s—? This material is—” He let it slide through his fingers, the ghost of reverence on his face.

Setting down the stack of t-shirts, Harry stood, something warm and soft shuddering through him at the way Malfoy was handling the Cloak. Even he, having worn it so often, sometimes forgot how beautiful it was, how precious. He lifted the hem, fingered it. 

“Try it on,” he said impulsively. Malfoy looked at him, so shocked Harry had to smile. He stepped back. “Really. It barely covers my shoes now, so you’ll probably have to—” he bent his knees slightly in example, “—but go ahead.”

Malfoy licked his lips. “I’ve never had one,” he said, as though confessing something terrible. Harry grinned and opened his wardrobe door wider, pointed at the mirror hanging on the inside, and Malfoy drew in a breath. He slanted Harry another dubious glance and then shook the Cloak out, the fabric rippling as it unfurled completely, and whisked it around his shoulders and over his head, looking at his reflection as it vanished in an instant down to the scuffed tips of his Oxfords — and, after a moment, those were gone, too. Thoughtfully, his disembodied voice mused, “It’d be hard to walk like this.”

“Try doing it with two friends under there with you.”

“Think of the things you could do, though,” Malfoy said, voice drifting.

Harry heard a sound near the door to his loo and looked there. Wryly, he said, “I’ve done most of them.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Malfoy said, right behind him. Harry jumped, whirled, and Malfoy pulled off the Cloak. His face was flushed and his eyes were bright and elated, but his smile was downright sly. He held the Cloak out to Harry. “I’m sure I could think of some new ones.”

Their gazes caught and Harry swallowed, seized into stillness by the thought of watching his cock throb from a slow, undulating suckle, slick heat pulling him in that he could feel but not see, and for a moment he thought he saw his own thoughts echoed on Malfoy’s face — for a moment, it felt like an _invitation_ — but then Malfoy thrust the Cloak into Harry’s hands and walked back over to Harry’s wardrobe. 

“Thanks,” Malfoy said, pulling out a fairly new, pale blue dress shirt with a look of disdain. He tossed it in the pile with Harry’s joggers. “But you should keep that in a trunk, too. It would allow for more space, and it could wear out, otherwise.”

“It won’t,” Harry said, a touch dizzy. He draped the Cloak across the foot of his bed and said, “I thought our appointment was at two.”

“Ah, he’s awake enough to comment on the time of my arrival,” Malfoy murmured. He unburied a pair of braces decorated by Snitches that Harry thought might’ve been a gift from Hermione years ago, frowned at them for a beat, and then threw them into the tiny pile of clothing he seemed to deem worthy of being kept. “And there’s another lesson: being ready for the unexpected guest oftentimes means waking up before eleven in the morning.”

Grumbling to himself, Harry ran a hand over his stubble. “You were expected — just not until two,” he pointed out.

“The lesson _actually_ being, don’t expect others to automatically subscribe to the same societal structures as you hold yourself to,” Malfoy said. He held up small box. Shook it. “What is this? Jewelry?”

Harry shrugged. “Cufflinks and tie pins and the like.”

“May I?”

“Why ask now?” Harry said, indicating the clothing strewn about his room. “Look, do you really need me here for this?”

“You have so many more important things to do while you’re on holiday?”

“I thought I’d take a shower,” Harry said. “Freshen up a bit.”

Malfoy returned his shrug, shifting around Harry’s unused accessories with his index finger. “If that’s a euphemism for wanking, I’m disappointed to have to inform you that it’s impolite to discuss those habits in front of guests.”

Harry balled up his hands and said, “Don’t you dare Vanish or burn any of my things without permission,” before stalking into the bathroom. He slammed the door and leaned against it, staring at his flushed reflection in the mirror above the sink, breathless and maddened. His cock was so hard he thought it might pop the zip on his jeans, but after Malfoy’s rejoinder, he’d be damned if he gave Malfoy the satisfaction of doing anything about it. 

Dammit.

Trust Malfoy to take the fun out of even that.

* * *

Malfoy insisted on lunch before their appointment, which meant a new host of complications for Harry. Not only did Harry have to Glamour, Malfoy had made Harry Transfigure what was left of his clothing into something more "suitable" for the establishment he waltzed them into (and then expected Harry to bribe the maître d for a table at), which turned out to be a _really_ bad idea — after neglecting a much-needed morning wank, Harry should have known better than to let Malfoy direct what he put on his back. The feel of Malfoy’s eyes sweeping over Harry’s skin, to mention nothing of Malfoy’s attitude, left Harry so distracted and irritable that by the time they were finished, the only lesson Harry had really taken to heart was that the dinner fork had longer tines.

He took a little comfort from the fact that he knew which utensil to stab Malfoy with when he inevitably drove Harry to violence, although Malfoy didn’t seem to appreciate it when Harry said as much. Shoving his chair away from the table as soon as the bill was delivered, Malfoy forced a smile and somehow managed to look sophisticated and unperturbed even as he stormed outside to wait. Blood thundering in his brain, Harry took his sweet time paying, not remotely eager to join him.

“You were _deliberately_ embarrassing me so I’d not be able to get a reservation there again!” Malfoy hissed when Harry met him outside. He started walking in the direction of Crepuscule Alley, clipping so fast along the cobblestones Harry had to lengthen his strides to keep up.

“Right, and the twenty Galleons you made me slide the maître d was because they’d lost yours,” Harry snapped, returning the poisonous look Malfoy shot him with one of his own. “Do you mind telling me what’s crawled up your arse and died today?”

Malfoy remained silent, stewing as they walked along Diagon Alley. Harry tried to calm down and didn’t push him further. Ever since he’d come out of the shower, Malfoy seemed to be vying for a spot in the World’s Biggest Dickhead Olympics. Gone was the back and forth conversation that Harry’d barely had a chance to acclimate to, the sort that occasionally held a hint of something friendlier, only to be replaced by such a massive reversion to form Harry was tempted to kick him in the shin. Malfoy bit off every word he spoke, openly, cruelly mocked Harry’s choice of attire and attempts to set his hair to rights, quizzed Harry on wizarding customs that only someone who had been raised in a family like his could possibly know, and derided Harry for every wrong answer and perceived transgression over lunch.

Harry’d gone along with it, at first wondering if it was some sort of test on decorum and then simply determined not to let Malfoy win whatever argument they’d entered without Harry’s knowledge. And it seemed like Malfoy knew it might come to this; before they set out for lunch, Malfoy’d made a point of telling Harry that public fighting was gauche. Though Harry knew that well enough — he’d never use the word ‘gauche’, but as a child he’d observed enough of the disapproving looks directed at Vernon and Petunia when they'd been forced to bring him anywhere and ended up snipping at him or each other — as they walked stiffly up the road, he secretly nurtured the memory of that rollicking fight he and Malfoy got into on the Quidditch pitch in fifth year. There was something about the no-holds-barred physicality of it that Harry thought would be extremely satisfying: shoving Malfoy against the grotty stones in one of the alleyways and slamming a fist into his sneery, judgemental mouth; taking a punch or five and returning them until they were both aching and bruised and bloody. Contemplating it brought Harry his first real smile since they left his flat, and he whiled away their walk for the next several minutes imagining different scenarios and wondering just what Malfoy would do if he bunched a hand in the fine material of Malfoy’s shirt and hauled him into a shadowed nook between buildings, until a few things occurred to him. 

The first was that it was a nice day, warm with a blue-skied backdrop, the flower stalls they were striding past a chaos of bright, blooming colours. While none of that was so unusual, it was hotter than normal for the start of June; the spicy-sweet scent of the flowers didn’t drift with a breeze but rather seemed to hang in place, confined by the humid lack of movement in the air. And yet Malfoy walked with the collar of his suit jacket flipped up, his shoulders around his ears and his hands shoved deep into his pockets. His face was guarded, eyes continually on the move. It was a look Harry’d recognised from taking victim statements from domestic calls or muggings that had turned violent, a jumpy, paranoid tension in the facial muscles, though Malfoy’s expression was mostly bland, if still a little pissed off. 

Harry put a hand on Malfoy’s arm to slow him up, pulling away when Malfoy’s bicep bunched with a flinch. He kept his voice level. “If it was a race you were after, we should have brought our brooms.” Malfoy didn’t say anything, and Harry took a breath. “How far are we from… where we’re going?” 

“Not far.”

So much for that conversational gambit. 

“Hot today,” Harry said. 

Malfoy grunted.

“Will it ruin any of your plans if I take off the Glamour?” Harry asked, as casually as he could. He cleared his throat when Malfoy side-eyed him. “They get a little itchy in warmer weather, you know?”

“Not really,” Malfoy muttered. “I’m can't use them anymore.” Harry’s steps faltered, but as he was searching for the right way to frame his question, Malfoy said, “Willing to be seen in public with me but not others, Potter? I thought you valued your privacy.”

“I do,” Harry said, confused. He ran a hand over his features, dissolving the disguise that coloured his hair and narrowed his face, that hid his scar. “But I don’t mind, you know, being seen with— I can take care of myself and, and anything else that crops up. Anyway, that was part of the deal, wasn’t it, for me to tell people about working with you later on? Might feel out of nowhere if I suddenly start giving interviews and no one’s seen us together.”

“Hmph.” 

It wasn’t really any sort of response but as they continued, Malfoy’s shoulders slowly came down and he removed his hands from the pockets of his jacket, swinging them curled loosely at his sides. He was still walking fast enough to stir the carefully-styled, pale quiff of his hair and his face was grim, but the hard nastiness of his scorn seemed to have faded. 

“Is that what your problem’s been?” Harry asked. “You thought I—”

“I’ve _had_ no problem, Potter. You be as circumspect as you like, about _everything_ you like,” Malfoy said. He stopped in front of a small storefront, the words _Concupiscent Couturiers: Fashion and Accessories for Discriminating Witches and Wizards_ written in lavish, looping script over a window that had been charmed dark, and pulled on the door. He held it open and stood aside, gesturing for Harry to enter first and, again, cutting off Harry’s line of questions. Harry shot him a look to convey he knew exactly what Malfoy was up to — even if he had no idea _why_ — and proceeded into the shop.

Incredibly dim after the bright sunlight of midday, it took Harry’s eyes a few moments to adjust and when they did, his jaw dropped. He turned to Malfoy, found himself being watched with a look of mild amusement, and grabbed Malfoy’s sleeve to drag him closer. “This is a _sex shop!_ ”

“Good lord.” Malfoy snorted and pried Harry’s hand off him. “If this is how you behave in front of a few sex trinkets, I pity your spouse even more than I already did.”

“What?”

Malfoy waved him off. “It’s not a sex shop,” he said, then promptly ventured down an aisle, his eyes lit on a shelf of dildos that were apparently charmed to either vibrate or mimic ejaculating, and in a few cases, both. He picked up a box, studying the back of it. “Well, it’s not _only_ a sex shop. Toys and other sexual aids are mainly a side business. As the sign outside said, they work primarily with clothing.” 

“The second anyone mentions putting me in latex, I am _leaving_ ,” Harry warned from the corner of his mouth, turning away so his imagination would stop subjecting him to the image of Malfoy using the dildo he was contemplating so seriously. For fuck’s sake, who needed a sparkly blue dildo with packaging that promised it could double its already generous proportions? 

It wasn’t that Harry was a prude. It may have been a while since Harry’d got to give or get anything beyond a quick rub or blowjob on one of his half-days, but he liked sex as much as any bloke. He even had a toy or two of his own, hidden in the back of his bedside table. But they’d been bought at a Muggle establishment, far from those who were foaming at the mouth to make his private life public. And though he’d known that this section off Diagon tended to cater to a more discreet sort of shopper, it hadn’t occurred to Harry for a moment that he might need to be one.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Harry moaned.

Malfoy set the box down. “Oh please, Potter. Latex wouldn’t even look good on you.”

Ginny frequently blackmailed him with a picture that proved Malfoy wrong, but that wasn’t what Harry was concerned about. He pushed his glasses to his hairline and covered his face with his hands. “Oh my _god!_ ”

Malfoy scoffed and waited a beat before saying, “They make the best, longest lasting, most stylish and comfortable wizarding attire — of any sort — this side of Paris. You don’t need to—”

“You let me take off my _Glamour!_ ” Harry accused, into his hands. “There’s going to be pictures of us in tomorrow’s paper going into a fucking _sex shop_ together, Malfoy! What the _fuck!_ ” he half-yelled, so furious he finally understood the term ‘seeing red’, even with his eyes shut. Peeling his hands off his overheated face, he bared his teeth at Malfoy — who stared at him wordlessly, lips parted, his hands dangling at his sides holding a giant purple buttplug, and a dragon-shaped vibrator that was advertised to expel a “fiery load”. Harry covered his face again. 

“Listen,” Malfoy said hoarsely after a beat. “It’s— It’s not a problem.”

“Not for you!” Harry said with a high, strangled laugh, already picturing the headlines. As if it wasn’t bad enough that his breakup with Ginny was _still_ regular fodder for the _Prophet_ , the few one-offs who’d given interviews before he’d stopped visiting wizarding clubs were brought up at every opportunity; hell, the time he was spotted buying tofu for _Hermione_ had sent the papers into a storm of speculation over his personal eating habits. “How is this supposed to help me?”

“Well, it might help in a specific _way_...” Malfoy said doubtfully, and Harry looked up once more, a speechless snarl tearing from his throat. Malfoy held up both hands, palms flat. Defensive. “No,” he said, steadier. “It’s fine. Potter, it’s _fine_ , trust me.”

Harry took one, incensed step in Malfoy’s direction, shaking with rage, all of his hard work floating away before his eyes like sea kelp caught in a current. “ _Trust_ you?”

Even before Harry spoke, Malfoy seemed to realise what he’d asked, a stain of pink climbing his throat like ivy. He put the items in his hands on the shelf, gaze remote when he turned back, and said, “I know what to do.”

Through his teeth, Harry said, “You—” but was saved from finding out whether the rest would be an inquiry or something seriously vicious by the opening of a door he hadn’t noticed near the back of the shop, and Blaise Zabini walked out, tall and strikingly gorgeous as ever. Immediately, Harry understood that the lights were kept so low in the shop not because of the product they carried, but because it made Zabini’s brown skin practically glow and added a certain sparkle to his curly-lashed eyes, something that intensified his sex appeal ten-fold — as though giving a sample of what he might look like in bed after a long, hard shag. Even his clothes seemed chosen for such a narrative: his white shirt unbuttoned past his collarbone, his trousers just this side of indecently tight, a raisin-sized diamond winking in each of his earlobes. Harry gaped at him, so flustered by Zabini’s slow, full smile, it took Malfoy several increasingly sharp, _Potter!_ ’s to regain his attention. When he finally dragged his eyes away, Malfoy no longer seemed reasonable and calm so much as ready to slaughter Harry where he stood. Harry blinked. “What!”

“I _said_ , I’ll handle it,” Malfoy gritted out, nostrils flaring. He turned to Zabini, who was shaking his head. 

“You never said the appointment was for Harry Potter,” Zabini said. He shot Harry another curious glance, another swift smile, but the look he gave Malfoy was disapproving. 

“What does it matter?” Malfoy said.

Zabini shook his head again. “Draco—”

“It’s a favour for Granger,” Malfoy said, conveniently leaving out the rest of their terms. But, much to Harry’s surprise, that was enough to shut down Zabini’s next objection. His broad shoulders came down a little and he pursed his lips, but nodded. Malfoy snapped his fingers impatiently, then held out his hand. “I need your— thing, what is that. Your mobile.”

“Why?”

“Just give it to me,” Malfoy muttered. Zabini raised an eyebrow that half-convinced Harry that Malfoy was about to get tossed out on his arse, but pulled a black mobile from his pocket and handed it over. Malfoy flipped it open, trepidation flitting over his face, his long, elegant fingers fumbling at the buttons briefly before he looked back up. “Show me how to contact Astoria.”

Zabini sighed and shot Harry a conspiratorial look, took the phone back and fiddled with it, then shoved it at Malfoy and pointed. “Press that button to make a call,” he said, “and for Merlin’s sake, use the word _please_ once in a while.” He put a hand to Malfoy’s wrist. “No, call her from my office, I don’t want the signal disrupting any of the charms on the floor.”

Malfoy nodded, exhaled. “Blaise, would you _please_ ,” he said, making it sound in no way like a request, “take Potter to the back? He needs to leave in something delectable today.”

Apparently, blinking twice was as close as Zabini ever got to looking startled, but he certainly sounded it when he said, “Today? Draco, we've got back orders to—”

“Within the half-hour, even; we need to establish what we were doing here as quickly as possible. We’ll come back in a day or two after he’s been seen, you can take measurements then. But in the meantime, take something meant for someone else and fit it to him if you have to,” Malfoy said, fast and assured, but almost as if he was talking to himself. “Smart casual, nothing too alluring. Black perhaps, to make his eyes— No, red. Might as well, it’s flattering as anything else and people will automatically associate it with being an Auror, with power. Yes, red. Potter’s good for the gold, and if you do this, I’ll comp your next two sessions. Have him ready by the time I’m done.”

He didn’t give either of them a chance to respond before disappearing behind yet another door Harry hadn’t noticed. Zabini whistled and turned to Harry, an awkward pause suspended between them until he held out his hand. “I don’t think we’ve ever actually talked, though of course—”

“Right.” Harry shook. “Zabini.”

“Blaise, yeah. Call I call you Harry?” he asked, and Harry nodded. Blaise clapped his hands together. “Well, come on then, I suppose. Let’s not keep His Grace waiting.”


	4. Chapter 4

_To: Auror Harry Potter  
From: Greengrass Public Relations_

_Mr Potter,_

_Please excuse this abbreviated letter; while I have agreed to represent last-minute clients in the past, I have never before done so without speaking to them personally. I have already contacted The Prophet and have been assured that they will hold the pending story until Sunday morning’s edition — if I can provide them quotes from you. (This is standard, and I can take care of devising them with as much or as little input from you as makes you comfortable.) And though I know Draco has far too much to lose to fabricate such a story, particularly in regards to his place in your life and his authority to speak on your behalf, I cannot in good conscience write a draft for you, based on his version of events, without getting your approval first._

_Attached is my standard client contract. Please feel free to look things over and make (or have your solicitor make) any preferred/required adjustments. As I will be out of town until Tuesday, there is no rush to return it, but please do confirm by Owl with a verified magical signature, that I can run with the story Draco has given me as soon as possible._

_Very much looking forward to working with you._

_Sincerely,_  
Ms Astoria Greengrass  
Greengrass Public Relations 

_Potter,_

_Spoke again with Astoria. Prophet sitting on the story. You’re welcome. Meet me at Blumberton’s Tea Room in Canterbury for high tea tomorrow at four. Use a Glamour as you don’t have a new wardrobe yet, and I’d prefer you not to be seen in either today’s clothing or the few items I already regret not burning. Have rescheduled your full fitting for Sunday afternoon._

_D.L.M_

_Ms Greengrass,_

_Since you seem to show the common sense required not to simply take Malfoy at his word about me, I suppose I’ll be okay letting you take Malfoy at his word about me. I really, really appreciate anything you’ll be able to do to mitigate this situation. _

_As for quotes, I guess if you could find a way to subtly indicate I’ve matured without making me sound like ~~a twat~~ I’m trying to sound more mature? I’m on the cusp of receiving a promotion, is the thing, and I’m not sure how to strike the balance between… Well, anything. So feel free to use whatever information Malfoy’s given you and expand on that for “quotes” about this._

_Thank you again._

_Verified Magical Signature,  
Harry James Potter_

_Malfoy,_

_“You’re welcome”? Really?_

_See you tomorrow. Prick._

_HJP_

*

_Potter,_

_Though I’m loathe to admit it, for the most part, you did very well today. Congratulations on joining civilisation. One might almost assume you were a proper Brit — you’ll have to tell me sometime how you did it. (Please don’t, I don’t care.)_

_BUT EVEN WITH A GLAMOUR IT IS UNACCEPTABLE TO WEAR YESTERDAY’S CLOTHING TO HIGH TEA, IF I WAS ABLE TO SEE THAT YOU’D SIMPLY CHARMED IT A DIFFERENT (HORRIBLE) COLOUR, OTHERS SURELY WERE TOO. THERE IS A REASON YOU DO NOT USE COLOUR CHARMS ON HIGH-QUALITY MATERIAL. _

_I will pick you up for brunch, tomorrow at eleven._

_We will be discussing foreign financial affairs over the next few days. Including a list of books you may want to read tonight to get up to speed._

_D.L.M._

_Mr Potter,_

_You are very welcome, and thank you in return. Have submitted the spin to the Prophet — and they know by now not to cross me. Please contact me with any questions or concerns, by Owl or telephone._

_Astoria_

_Malfoy,_

_There are forty books on that list. I’m not going to requisition a Time Turner from the Ministry, so you’ll have to cope with me fumbling through it._

_HJP  
P.S. Maybe if you weren’t such an unbelievably egotistical arsehole who acted like you were the only one who’d ever attended high tea, I might want to stay pretty for you and not ruin my new clothes. (You left me a set of braces, jeans, and three shirts you’d likely have yelled at me for wearing. Why are you like this?)_

*

_Mr Potter,_

_I do hope you’ll pardon the Owl sent to your home, but I wanted to say how delightful it was running into you after lunch — though it did make me regret, even more, never before having gotten to speak with you at length. Your opinions about economic growth in the depressed areas of the US (particularly in comparison to Britain and Japan) were incredibly insightful, and I will be taking them into consideration. I do so hope to have the opportunity to speak with you on my next visit to London. Please pass along my regards to your Mr Malfoy._

_Sincerely,  
Elena Martinez _

_~~Ms Martinez,~~ _

_~~Malfoy and I aren’t— Malfoy isn’t my~~ _

_Ms Martinez,_

_It was lovely running into you as well. I understand you’ll be attending the Ministry gala at the end of the month, and look forward to seeing you then._

_Sincerely,  
Harry Potter_

_Potter,_

_Ha. Ha. Ha. How clever. I suppose you simply couldn’t resist making me look the fool? Very well. Perhaps next time I’ll send you a list of books on how to shave. Pillock._

_Blaise’s, at ten tomorrow._

_D.L.M_

_Malfoy,_

_Good god. Is that why you stalked off today? You picked the bloody restaurant, for fuck’s sake, and I’m on holiday! Was I supposed to have divined somehow that the Deputy Commissioner of the Department of Magical Commerce and Labor for MACUSA would be there as well? Excuse the fuck out of me for thinking it might be considered bad etiquette to ignore a foreign official who approached. She graciously sends her regards to you, by the way. _

_HJP_

*

**EXCLUSIVE! THE BOY WHO LIVED — GROWING UP?**

Rumours are swirling. Private to the last, our very own Chosen One, Harry Potter, was spotted without a Glamour on Crepuscule Alley earlier this week. Though that alone could be considered the scoop of a lifetime of late, considering Auror Potter’s disinclination to be seen in public wearing his own face while not in uniform, he was also in the presence of company so unbelievable, one might expect it to be reported by The Quibbler: Draco Malfoy.

According to Potter’s newly-retained representation, Astoria Greengrass, he has put old grudges with “non-threatening persons” to rest. But does that mean Potter is no longer the Saviour we believe him to be? Surely such unsavoury associations should be questioned, or at least under intense scrutiny for their duration, this journalist pointed out. “Not at all,” Ms Greengrass claimed via long-distance Floo call. “It is merely a sign that Mr Potter has grown as a person. He no longer nurtures the petty disagreements of old, which will help him in his pursuit of actual potential threats. Draco Malfoy is reformed, and I think his acquaintance with Mr Potter is proof of that as well.”

Whether or not it is perhaps conceivable that our hero is so fundamentally heroic as to befriend a lonely, ‘“reformed” Death Eater-turned-Private-Magical Technician and stay true to the cause of protecting the public, the story doesn’t end there—for the question still remains: Where were Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy headed together? The answer to that is perhaps the most titillating factor of all.

Located on the less commonly trafficked Crepuscule Alley sits a small, unassuming and understated shop that appeals to a niche market more suited to Knockturn. In it, our sources say the items available for purchase are not fit for print. While the Prophet was unable to gain access to the shop—patrons need to make an appointment for first-time entry, and we were refused—prior patrons, speaking anonymously, claim that the merchandise is adult in nature. Though this fact was undisputed by Ms Greengrass, Harry Potter, she says, was merely visiting for a fitting with the exclusive tailor who shares space with the shop. Considering Potter’s attire upon leaving, we at the Prophet are inclined to believe her. (Pictures below.)

Looking far more distinguished and polished than he has in previous years, Potter exited the shop with Mr Malfoy a mere forty minutes after arrival in dark day suit (sans tie) and burgundy shirt that fit him to perfection. “He’s someone who takes his career and responsibilities seriously. Part of that is feeling that he’s representing the Ministry well, on all fronts,” Ms Greengrass said. “Though we’ll always be grateful for his actions as a seventeen year old, he felt it was time to stop dressing like one. And then there is the matter of his personal life.” Potter, she intimated, may already be involved in a _very_ serious relationship, to the point of considering Significant Jewelry. She refused, however, to discuss specifics, merely saying that nothing is yet set in stone and— cont. on page six.

* * *

“Our studio is currently closed. We will re-open during normal business hours. Please Floo St Mungo’s in case of accidental magical catastrophe,” a more mechanical voice than Malfoy’s usual greeter intoned in Harry’s ear. Harry shook off the stinging of his palm and pounded against Malfoy’s door again.

“Malfoy! Open this damned door _right now_ or—”

“Our studio is currently closed. We will re-open—”

“ _Shut up!_ ” Harry snarled at it and, miraculously, it fell silent. He hit the door again, paused when he thought he heard a distant shuffle, and then resumed when it didn’t immediately open. “Malfoy, I swear to god I will use all of the magic at my disposal if you don’t let me the _fuck_ in, don’t think I—”

The door jerked open. Framed by the doorway and backlit by the low flames of two sconces on the walls, Malfoy stood before him in the same pyjamas Harry had seen him wearing nearly a week ago. He stared at Harry, expression caught somewhere between dumbfounded rage and sleep. “Harry? What the hell is going on? What time is it?”

“It’s _four_ ,” Harry said grimly, shoving the items he was holding at Malfoy and pushing past him. His heart was thundering in his ears, and now that his hands were no longer busy beating against the door or occupied, they were shaking. 

“Four in the—” Malfoy looked down at the paper in his arms, the letters. “The article came out?”

“An hour ago,” Harry said, with a caustic laugh that burned his throat. “And apparently I’m practically engaged! I’ve bought rings! But I’m not quite so engaged that I’m off the market! Which Astoria — who told me to send her thanks, when I called her — said _you_ told her!”

Malfoy scoffed quietly but didn’t otherwise respond. His hair was a fright, his eyes vaguely swollen with sleep, and he blinked several times before padding over to the reception desk and setting down the newspaper and stack of letters. “So what. You propose a little early, and announce at the gala. If there’s anything that might almost immediately ensure your promotion, it’s an engagement. I don’t see why any of this is so upsetting that you had to break down my door.”

“Are you _joking?_ ” Harry demanded. He pointed to the two dozen or so letters he’d managed to gather in his rage before Apparating over. “There are at least another hundred at my house, probably more by now! Either condemning me for keeping my mystery lover a mystery or begging me to consider them in his or her stead. I’m not faking a fucking engagement to get a job I deserve. I was willing to put up with your shit, but I draw the line at that. You really haven’t changed, have you, Malfoy, that you could possibly think I’d _ever_ consider—”

“It’s just rings!” Malfoy said over his rant, and Harry lashed out with one hand, cracking the plaster of the far wall with a vicious, wordless hex. 

“It’s _not just rings!_ ” he yelled, storming up to Malfoy, who took a step back, then planted his feet as if realising he was ceding ground. Good. Fine. _Better_ than fine. Harry didn’t _want_ him to back away, he wanted him close enough to— “This is my _life_ ,” he said, staring Malfoy dead in the eye. “This shit? What I’ve been doing with you? It’s ridiculous, but it doesn’t have to be a _lie._ ‘Just rings’? Who the hell do you think you—”

“No!” Malfoy shook his head quickly. Kept shaking it, blond hair tossing about his head. “I didn’t say— I said, ‘you have a ring.’”

Harry couldn’t seem to catch his breath, wanted to send another hex flying about the room, but— that didn’t make any sense. “What does that mean?”

Malfoy made a low, bewildered sound. “The— In your— With your cufflinks. Engraved with magic, and I know the sort; my parents had the same kind. The magic was active, which. Which means—”

“That I might be getting married someday, yeah,” Harry said in disbelief. “It was my grandmother’s. I inherited it when I turned twenty-one, but I wouldn’t use it even if I was getting engaged tomorrow! _That’s_ what you based this on?”

“But— No.” Malfoy hesitated, then seemed to gather himself. “I mean, yes. But it— It’s—” He took a sudden step closer, looking far more awake. “You’re _not_ about to propose to anyone?”

“Fuck no!” Harry said, and stopped. He thought about Malfoy in his home a few days prior, the sudden shift in his attitude. The insinuations that Harry was keeping secrets; his apparent determination to keep picking petty arguments since; the way he’d stopped calling Harry by his first name — until this morning. Harry swallowed. “You actually thought I was— getting engaged.”

“You actually thought I’d make that up as a way for you to secure— No,” Malfoy said, bringing the heel of one hand up to grind against his forehead, “don’t answer that.” He sighed and dropped his hand, turning back to look at the letters, spilling sideways now, across his desk. “I might have, if I’d thought of it,” he said. “I was going to mention that it would be wise of you to rotate between a few regular plus-ones rather than attending on your own, until I saw…”

In profile, he looked tired, thoughtful, distant — but not defensive. Harry searched for something to say; the anger that had sent him storming over hadn’t entirely abated but, slowly, it was subsiding enough that it no longer obscured the rest of what he was feeling: a jumble of resentment, and disappointment, and betrayal. After he’d realised what had been behind the influx of Owls trying to break through his windows, and just before he’d let himself be consumed by the driving need for a confrontation, he’d been remarkably… hurt. 

That Malfoy would toy with Harry’s personal life after being allowed into it on some level— It was something Harry would have expected from the Malfoy of ten years ago, not the one standing before him looking strangely wilted in his ill-fitting pyjamas. It had come as a blow.

As Harry was trying to decide whether to apologise — because it _was_ Malfoy’s fault, and he should have just _asked_ rather than making assumptions — Malfoy cleared his throat and stood up a bit taller. “Alright. Does Astoria have a plan of action for managing the fallout over this?” he asked brusquely.

Harry hesitated, then gave Malfoy a wary nod. “She’s contacting the _Prophet_ ; she said that since this issue will likely sell out quickly, she’s got a good chance of getting a retraction — or clarification — by today’s first reprint. And she sent over a warding specialist to strengthen my Owl restrictions. He showed up as I was leaving.”

“Good, yes.” Malfoy’s gaze flashed to him, then away, and back. His lips thinned, and he said, “I suppose Astoria will have to wait a while for hers, but as you’re here, there’s no reason you should: I apologise, Potter— Harry.” Harry stilled, trying not to openly gape, as Malfoy soberly continued, “I can only imagine how inconvenient and upsetting this will be for you until it’s rectified, and I should have considered the implications better. I behaved out of— Even if I had been right in assuming— I have no excuse. The fact that I thought I was privy to your information didn’t give me the right to share it with anyone else without your permission. If you’d like not to return, of course I wouldn’t blame you, nor will I hold you to any part of our former agreement. ”

“Oh,” Harry said, bemused and aware he was utterly failing at not openly gaping. “If it was an accident, I guess—”

Malfoy inhaled. “It wasn’t, but it was… thoughtless.”

It took Harry a few moments to organise his thoughts in the face of that. Other than during the brief statement Malfoy had read at his sentencing, Harry had never seen him look so totally accountable for the damage he had inflicted — knowingly or unknowingly. Harry nodded again. “Okay. I— It’s not something most other people have to consider, I suppose, and I was mostly angry when I thought that you’d… When—”

“When you thought I what?” Malfoy asked, taking another step closer. He tilted his head, eyes moving over Harry’s face. It made him feel too exposed and, for some reason, embarrassed; how the tension he’d carried on his back into the room seemed to shift, and settle, and grow elastic — stretched tight. 

Harry laughed, low and strained, words failing him. He shook his head. “Let’s just… We can forget about it.” He shot Malfoy a weak smile. “But I’m not apologising for getting you up in the middle of the night again.”

“I don’t think it qualifies as that anymore,” Malfoy said, still wearing that unnervingly shrewd look on his face. He checked Harry over, up and down, so swiftly Harry wondered if he’d imagined it, and then closed even more space between them. “But yes, it’s becoming something of a habit for you.”

“What is?” Harry asked, blank. If Malfoy took another step, maybe two, he’d be near enough to smell— to touch. Agitated, Harry turned around, walking deeper into Malfoy’s studio; he hadn’t come here with the intention of touching Malfoy, at least not in any of the ways his dick seemed eager for. That one had been so quickly and easily substituted for the other was… unsettling. 

“Getting me… up,” Malfoy said from behind him, sounding amused, “in the middle of the night. Very up. I doubt I’ll even be able to get back to sleep. Though I may have done the same thing to you, right? At least once.”

_At least?_

“Then again,” Malfoy said, “you did provoke me.”

“Yeah, well, same,” Harry muttered. He took a breath and wandered closer to the table in the middle of the studio for something to focus on other than the sound of Malfoy’s drawl, the innuendo he seemed to be making. _Was_ making, had to be, though Harry could barely believe it; it was, by far, some of the least subtle baiting he’d ever heard that didn’t include the words “suck your cock in the loo.” 

“A habit of mine,” Malfoy agreed, again with that undercurrent of inexplicable cheer in his voice, as though on the verge of a laugh. 

“I should probably be going,” Harry said without turning, pulse throbbing hard in his throat. When he got only silence as a response, he stepped up to the table Ron had made. Beside it, little, familiar strains of magic drew Harry’s attention, little wisps that felt dreamily like the only sort of real home he’d ever had, and, fascinated, he rested his hands on it. He closed his eyes, losing his breath a little at how deeply Ron’s magic was embedded in the materials of the piece, woven all through it — but layered under a different sort, something that nettled, yet still managed to feel pleasant, warm, curious. He ran his hands along the sheet tucked into the padding, sensation skittering up through his hands to his arms, to his throat and down. 

“God,” Harry breathed. He took his hands away and examined it closely, detecting a faint, white glow. “What, exactly, is it that you do?”

“Any functional system can get congested or blocked with the wrong sort of energy,” Malfoy said after a few beats, no longer sounding so amused. “Like a wrench thrown into Muggle machinery. It’s the same with the magical network, those extra nerves and chromosomes we have that connect with our nervous systems. When it starts to get dodgy, people experience it with a variety of symptoms: exhaustion, frustration, anxiety, unreliable magic, et cetera. What I do boosts the flow. Strips away the—.”

“Static.” Harry turned, surprised to find Malfoy so near again. He took a step back, arse hitting the edge of the table. “Ron said it’s a rare talent to have.”

“You told—” Malfoy cut himself off, shook his head. “It is. Most witches and wizards — the ones raised in wizarding homes, that is — grow up learning somewhat comparable spells, and there are potions and such like Calming draughts that can have a similar effect, but a really good revitalisation is… harder to come by.” He quirked a pale, languid brow. “Interested?”

 _God help me, I think I really am,_ Harry thought before he could catch himself. Warm face growing hotter, he glanced back at the table and blew out a breath. “Why haven’t I ever heard of it before?”

Malfoy shrugged, still watching him keenly. A cool, waking blue was starting to drift through the gauzy curtains, though sunrise had to still be an hour away, and it subtly changed the proportions of his face. Softened some of Malfoy’s bladed features. “It’s not something people talk about. It’s a little crude to admit to your magic’s not working properly, isn’t it, and since the advent of certain potions, it’s become less necessary to seek aid — or, people think it is anyway, feel cured by what they get at the apothecary. Besides, the few of us who are born with the natural ability to use it on others tend to be purebloods, and people like my father felt—”

“Right.”

“Well,” Malfoy said, looking down his nose at Harry from the advantage of an inch or two at the most, the wanker, “I provide a service that works better for the same amount as what someone would spend on potions twice a month. It also just… feels good.” That damned eyebrow was still up, and Malfoy’s eyes flicked over Harry lingeringly. “There’s no shame in wanting to feel good. Is there.”

“There might be some shame in it,” Harry said, rattled. “I really should go now.” Before he did something he’d regret. Probably. 

Maybe.

Malfoy cracked a half-smile. “Yeah.” He took a step back, another to the side, allowing for an escape route. “Don’t forget we have an appointment later,” he said. Harry nodded distractedly and made for the door, but was halted by Malfoy’s voice just moments before reaching safety.

“Your magic, though,” Malfoy said. 

Harry turned, one hand on the doorknob, breathing unsteadily. “Yeah?”

“It sparked gold when you used wandless last week in front of me,” Malfoy said. At the confusion he must’ve seen on Harry’s face, he added, “Just under your hand, when you took off your robes? But it left a shadow. I could do you,” he said, smile taking on a wicked slant when Harry gulped, “very easily. If you change your mind. Take some time to think about it, Harry — and let me know.”


	5. Chapter 5

Harry thought about it. 

Sacrificing sleep, he thought about it rather incessantly over the next few hours. 

All over his flat. 

In the entryway, tearing his flies open as soon as his door was shut and locked behind him, and coming in a matter of seconds, a mere three or four jerks after he got a hand around his straining cock. Again, when he barely softened, making his way to the sofa and torturing himself with a variation of the image he’d had a few days prior of shoving Draco into the shadows, against the bricks — tugging on his erection slowly, one thumb smearing silky wet over his glans as he pictured Draco jerking his own trousers down and spinning, canting that arse towards Harry and spreading it open for him with a filthy, needy groan when Harry pushed inside. Later, in the kitchen, fucking into the tunnel of his fist when the memory of Draco’s tongue swiping over his lip got him hard in an instant, shuddering to climax at the thought of coming all over Draco’s cool, haughty face, and burning his eggs on the hob in the process. In the shower, gasping under the spray and leaning his shoulders against the cool tile, one foot propped on the lip of the tub, rolling his balls in one hand and teasing his rim with the other to the idea of letting Draco bend him over that massage table and have at him, until he was so maddened, just the sensation of his fingertips easing back the tight hood of his foreskin made him break.

And if he’d indulged, a time or two, since they started working together, in fantasising about Draco’s distinctive shade of hair on the head his imagination conjured to bob over him as he wanked, at least that had been mostly accidental, and understandable: Draco was attractive; Harry was a man who was attracted to men. They were in close proximity on a regular basis and, ultimately, those instances didn’t have to mean anything. But since his cock had clearly decided it was fifteen again in the face of Draco’s allusions, he was starting to reconsider — and get more than a little sore.

Which didn’t stop him from considering the use of another Healing charm to soothe some of the chafing for a final wank before heading out. Fortunately, cooler heads prevailed just as his hand was inching towards his flies once more, in the form of an Owl breaching his wards with Blaise’s Floo address. 

“Please,” Harry said, stepping out and pulling up in front of Draco. “Please tell me that he just had the Floo installed so I don’t have to kill you.”

They were inches from each other, the slender bow of Draco’s mouth drawn into a smirk. His gaze shifted to the shoulder of Harry’s shirt, and he brought a hand up to dust over the top, to pinch the seam there and straighten it. “Don’t blame me, Harry; blame your precious Ministry and the business waiting list to get installed on the Floo Network directly to Diagon Alley.” His finger grazed Harry’s neck, right above the collar, and one brow lifted when Harry jerked. Eyes gleaming, Draco let his hand fall to his side and said, “Couldn’t get back to sleep? You’re looking a bit high-strung.”

“The financial section of the paper was riveting this morning,” Harry said, slightly breathless, “and I couldn’t resist reading it.” He felt a burst of pleasure when Draco’s nostrils flared, his lower lip disappearing between his teeth for a second as he fought a smile. Harry didn’t fight his at all. Rashly, he let his gaze roam from down from Draco’s face to a suit so black it should feel sombre, but was saved by how perfectly tailored it was to his tall, lithe frame, by the intriguing sheen of the fabric, and the punctuation of a vibrant purple tie. 

Harry let his smile grow at the challenge in Draco’s eyes when he brought his gaze back up; it fizzed excitedly through Harry’s veins and, like that, made what had felt like a _decision_ , even moments ago, seem like a foregone conclusion. And why shouldn't it be, for now? He lifted the blade of Draco’s tie, knuckles skimming over the hard, tensing muscles of his stomach through his shirt, and said, “Draco—”

“What the hell did you do to that shirt?” Blaise asked. 

Harry and Draco both jumped, the silk of Draco’s tie slipping from Harry’s fingertips. Blaise had somehow crept up on them and was only a metre away, looking at Harry’s shirt with outrage on his face. Harry flushed. “Malfoy burned most of my clothes, so—”

“They were in pain,” Draco said archly. “Someone had to put them out of their misery.”

“And we’ll have to do it to that one, too,” Blaise said. He scowled and took Harry by the shoulders, turning him from side to side, and directed his censure at Draco. “Didn’t you tell him what Transfiguring the colour of our clothing would do to the material?”

“Not that he bothered asking me first,” Draco said, rolling his eyes, “but _you_ try telling him something like that.”

Harry frowned. He’d never had a problem Transfiguring the colour of his clothes before in a pinch and, honestly, couldn’t see any difference to the damned shirt except that it was now bleached white. He said as much, only to be ignored.

“Greg won’t be happy,” Blaise told Draco.

“Greg?” Harry asked. “Goyle?”

“He might cry,” Draco said matter-of-factly, slanting a look at Blaise as he, brows drawn down, continued to run his hands over Harry’s back and chest, down the sides of his waist. He took Harry by the elbow and gently away from Blaise’s wandering hands and said, “Groping him isn’t going to fix the shirt. Can we just get him into something new, please?”

“I have my own appointment,” Blaise said. “But Greg is in the back. He’s got a few things nearly ready based on the measurements of the customer whose clothes Harry stole.”

“I _paid for those_ ,” Harry said as Draco led him to the back of the shop again; for a few items, he’d paid so much gold he should have been able to fly home on them like a magic carpet. Annoyed at being handled, he shrugged off Draco’s hand. “Greg Goyle?”

“Blaise runs one side of the shop,” Draco explained. “And Greg runs the other. Well, works there. They own it together, but Greg’s never been particularly… business-minded.” He lowered his voice and leaned in, firmly taking Harry by the elbow once more, and this time Harry didn’t object. “He just enjoys creating things,” Draco said, “always has. But his father was a bit of a shit about how appropriate a hobby that was for his only son, and when he died a few years ago in Azkaban, Blaise offered him a job designing and making… specialty attire. It got so successful, so fast, that Greg was able to buy into the business.”

“Little wonder, considering how much they charge for things,” Harry said, and Draco snorted. 

“You should see the prices on said specialty attire,” Draco said, shaking his head with a look of admiration. “Initially, that was all they were going to do, but then Greg had a customer ask for a new cloak for a ball, and another who asked if he knew anything about Muggle-wear. Blaise is fairly selective about the clients Greg gets, though, likes to assess them first.”

“I’m… flattered?” Harry said. Draco squeezed his arm, his hand bleeding warmth through Harry’s shirt.

“You should be. If Blaise had decided you might upset Greg, we’d have had to go to Paris to get you clothed.”

“Upset him?” Harry asked. “We are talking about the same Goyle who I once saw sit on a first year to dangle spit over their face, right?”

“No, that was the one whose father was still frequently using him for Cruciatus practice when he thought Goyle wasn’t behaving enough like a man,” Draco said with a tightly-reined look of anger. Taken aback, Harry met his eyes, and Draco nodded, tensely. “He’s gone through a _lot_ of self-reflection — well, as much as he was able — and he’s more… in touch with his feelings now.”

“ _How_ in touch?” Harry asked, recalling Draco’s comment about him crying.

Draco pursed his lips. “More,” he said, short and cryptic, and pulled on Harry’s arm. 

He escorted Harry to an entirely different room than Blaise had brought him to before, to Harry's initial relief. Rather than a large closet of sorts filled with clothing hung in rows, bits of parchment Spell-o-Taped to their collars or sleeves, Harry saw a more standard tailoring chamber. A raised pedestal sat in the middle of the room; mirrors on each wall cast a series of infinite reflections. Where there was space, multi-coloured swatches of fabric gleamed in the abundant light, draped expectantly over hangers affixed to the bare spaces on the walls and fluttering as if waiting for the opportunity to be used — exotic burnt oranges and shades of turquoise Harry’d only seen in pictures of Grecian seas, reds so rich and liquid they looked like they belonged in a wine glass, and greens that made Harry itch to feel the grass of a Quidditch pitch under his bare feet. 

“Wow.”

Draco glanced at him, his lips tugging into a smile. “He makes the fabrics, too.”

Harry was saved from coming up with a reply to that by Goyle, who came out of a tiny, doorless room that appeared behind a mirror (and promptly vanished). He looked the same — thick-necked and hulking — but for the sunny yellow, sashed robes he wore, and the open warmth of his frankly beautiful smile when his gaze landed on Draco. “You wore it!” he said delightedly, coming closer to scoop Draco up in a hug. Harry stepped back, alarmed, but Draco seemed to accept it as due course, a faintly embarrassed expression crossing his face as he patted Goyle reluctantly on the back.

“Um, Greg?”

Goyle set Draco down, his pleased smile broadening, transforming the more intimidating aspects of his face. “I didn’t think you would because it was a whole outfit, but it looks just like I pictured!” he said. “The sheen does something nice to your skin,” he added thoughtfully, like he hadn’t quite anticipated it. “I knew there was a reason I added so much extra fairy silk to it.”

“Yes, yeah, thank you,” Draco said, with another flustered glance in Harry’s direction.

“You made Draco’s clothes?” Harry asked, too curious about this shift in Draco and Goyle’s dynamic from master/lacky to actual friends to keep his mouth shut any longer. He looked Draco’s suit over with a new eye, noting the gleam embedded in the material and how it did, indeed, make Draco’s skin sort of glow, how it contrasted so drastically with his hair and complexion but didn’t make him look sickly. How the purple of his tie brought out the bluer striations in the grey fractals of his eyes. “They’re… really nice,” he added lamely. 

“Thanks!” Goyle nodded, looking momentarily unnerved at Harry’s presence but quickly regaining his enthusiasm as he continued, “The fairy-silk is harvested humanely, don’t worry, but you see that bit of… sparkle?” He hesitated as he gestured to Draco’s tie, like he was unsure that was the right word for it, and looked at Draco for confirmation. Draco nodded, ticking him a measured smile, and Goyle grinned and said, “That’s only found in fairy-silks from tropical environments, and I knew it’d work with the black, ‘cos he’s so pale. He doesn’t usually let me make him things, but since it was his—”

“Greg,” Draco snapped.

Goyle stopped and looked at him, eyes widening for an awkward beat that left Harry feeling like he was witnessing a whole, unspoken conversation between them. Contritely he said, “Right, sorry. You said—”

“We’re in a hurry today, yes,” Draco said, more gently. He patted Goyle on the arm.

“We are?” Harry asked. “I thought most of today was clothes.”

 

“Well, we’re not in the same hurry we were last time,” Draco said, brow knitting when Goyle remained quiet. Harry glanced at him to find Goyle’s chin shaking, his lower lip trembling with it. Draco threw Harry a worried look, then said, “ _Thank_ you for the clothes, I love them, they’re perfect, yes, I plan to wear them all the time.” And then, in an act of such arsehole-ery it was obvious it was each man for himself, threw Harry into the line of fire. “And I sincerely apologise on Harry’s behalf for what he did to the beautiful shirt you made.”

Goyle’s lip stopped quivering, and he looked to Harry’s shirt. His mouth dropped open. “What did you—? What _happened_!” He turned from Draco and started unbuttoning Harry’s shirt with surprisingly nimble fingers, pausing briefly to check Harry’s face for permission when Harry stiffened, then continuing when he seemed to ascertain that Harry was uncomfortable but not about to draw his wand. Stripping the article off Harry’s back, Goyle brought it up close to his own face. “You Transfigured the _colour_? Why would you _do_ that?”

“Draco didn’t tell me I wasn’t supposed to!” Harry said, fully willing to shuffle the blame back. Draco, on the cusp of a smirk, glared at him and said, before Goyle could add anything, “Well, honestly, how was I to know that he’d do such a thing? He was practically raised in a barn; you remember how he used to dress.”

Though a barn might have actually been something of an improvement, Harry said, “Hey!”

“That’s true,” Goyle mumbled, still unhappy but no longer quite so crestfallen. 

“ _Hey!_ ” Harry said again. He wrapped his arms around his midsection.

Goyle sighed and Vanished the shirt that had cost Harry nearly eighty Galleons. “Sarah really liked that shirt. Take off your trousers and get on the pedestal. Can I call you Harry?”

“Uh, sure.” Harry burbled an incredulous laugh, hugging himself a little tighter as Goyle headed over to a small cabinet and began sorting through it. “Who’s Sarah?”

Goyle glanced over his shoulder, a shy smile curving his mouth. “My… my girl.”

“Oh,” Harry said, surprised though he couldn’t say why. “Congratulations.”

Face colouring, Goyle nodded and turned back to his cabinet. “This’ll just take a second.”

“I think that was his way of prompting you to finish disrobing,” Draco murmured. “Or does he need to buy you dinner first, Harry?” His gaze ran over Harry’s exposed skin, which prickled in the chill of the room, his nipples tightening to small, sensitive points. Draco’s eyes rested there for a moment and Harry’s breath caught.

“Well, it’s considered polite, isn’t it?” Harry asked, then cleared the roughness from his throat. Skin warming deliciously under Draco’s direct, unyielding assessment, he said, “Aren’t you going to excuse us?”

Finally, Draco’s eyes came up. He inhaled slowly, consideringly, and then said, “No,” before turning and walking over to drop into the lone chair on the side of the room. Leaning back and crossing his legs, he propped his elbow on the arm and tucked his hand under his narrow chin.

Fuck. _Fuck._

Under normal circumstances, Harry might have been comforted by the memory of his excessive wanking sessions that morning — might have thought that would ensure a measure of protection from being caught out — but as his cock seemed determined to ignore his many, increasingly exasperated lectures, he didn’t exactly feel prepared to disrobe. Already, he could feel a slight twitch of arousal lengthening it against his thigh, Draco’s eyes expectant and… and _smug_ on his body. 

“Problem?” Draco asked.

“Not at all,” Harry lied. Half-turning to glance at Goyle and finding him still occupied at the cabinet, Harry casually smoothed the material over the front of his trousers and sent a quick, wandless Numbing charm to the region. Toeing off his shoes carefully so as to not scuff their high polish, Harry scooted them to the side with one foot, then took a deep breath and padded over to the pedestal in his socks, locking eyes with Draco as he stepped up onto it. As he lifted his hands to his belt. 

No longer in the languid pose from before, Draco’s posture had straightened; as Harry watched, he uncrossed his legs and planted both feet flat on the floor, thighs parted, a soft flush stealing over his cheeks. Harry exhaled and slid the tail of the belt from the loops at his waist, slowly, one at a time, curling the supple leather back to slip the prong free of the notch. The buckle made a quiet, tinkling sound as Harry dropped the two sides to dangle and popped the button on his trousers. Draco’s gaze was wide, his pupils expanding, and Harry’s heart pounded painfully, an exhilarated drum against his breastbone. He eased down the zipper, let his trousers gape open to reveal his grey boxer-briefs. 

“Thanks for letting me keep some of my pants,” Harry said with a wry, self-conscious laugh. “Otherwise this might have been _really_ awkward.”

Draco made a stifled sound and said, “You’re not the only one allowed to make stupid decisions sometimes,” and Harry swallowed the hard knot rising in his throat. Draco’s jaw tightened. Barely moving his lips, he said, “I’m fairly sure Greg won’t be able to measure you with those hanging off your hips.”

“I don’t want to let my wand— My wand is in my pocket,” Harry said, feeling muddled. His voice came out thick. 

“Is that what that is.” Draco’s eyes didn’t even flicker lower, still intense on Harry’s face. He licked his lips and rose from the chair, prowling up to Harry with a smooth, loping walk, steady as a predator emerging from his watchpoint in the high grass, and pulled to a stop at the base of the pedestal. Taller than Draco this way, Harry stared down at him, mind blank. He hadn’t expected that turning the tables on Draco in such a fashion might actually _lead_ to… whatever this was. Whatever might be about to happen, the air between them laden with anticipation. 

Deliberately, Draco broke their gaze to look Harry over again, lingering here and there, and for each pause — on Harry’s arms, his chest, his fluttering stomach, the v leading into his pants — Harry took a second to thank the gods for the rigorous daily training that kept him in shape. Draco lifted both hands, resting one of them on Harry’s hip and stroking the air over the skinny trail of dark hair under Harry’s belly button with two fingers, frustratingly close but not touching, a faraway look on his face. Then he set his other hand to Harry’s opposite hip, curled his fingers into the loose waistband of his trousers, and shimmied them until they dropped to puddle between Harry’s knees. Harry shifted and let them fall to the floor, stepped out of them. He watched, mesmerised, as Draco bent and retrieved them, folding them over one arm before looking back up to Harry. 

“I’ll just hold it for you then, shall—”

Harry didn’t think about it, or didn’t _let_ himself; he grabbed Draco’s tie and curled it around his hand, hauling Draco up and stooping his shoulders to meet him in the middle, their mouths slanting together with the perfect amount of force. Draco didn’t even seem surprised, rising up on his tiptoes to surge against Harry, opening his mouth and fucking _purring_ when Harry swept his tongue inside. And god, it was better than any of Harry’s fantasies had been, the slick of Draco’s mouth moving insistently against Harry’s, the heat of his fingers sliding around to the small of Harry’s back and up as he stepped up onto the pedestal as well, to take control. He crowded Harry and nudged his chin with a single knuckle, changing the angle of the kiss, and sucked Harry’s bottom lip between his. Harry groaned, shivers of sensation rocketing through him; he let his head fall back into the cradle of Draco’s sure hand, Draco’s fingers already woven tight through his hair. 

“Um,” he heard distantly in the background, gasping when Draco released his lip and plunged his tongue back into his mouth, returning the kiss harder and fisting his free hand in the material covering Draco’s waist. Then, louder, disturbing the swirl of Harry’s mind: “Um, should I—?” and Harry nearly nearly fell over when Draco wrenched his mouth away, and took a smooth step down from the pedestal. Harry, breathing hard, remembered Goyle’s presence behind him and forced himself to keep his hands at his sides even though they wanted to reach for Draco, wanted to haul him back. Draco stood before him with a look of cool impassivity on his face that was at complete odds with the fierce blush covering his cheeks, and rumpled hair, the narrowed gleam of his eyes and the loosened, crooked knot of his tie. Panting, he lifted a hand and blotted at his mouth with the cuff of his sleeve, then dragged his gaze away. 

“No, we still need him fitted,” Draco said. Something shifted in his gaze, the suggestion of a troubling thought. "It takes priority."

Harry kept his mouth shut for the long silence that followed. His lips throbbed; his whole body felt licked by heat, his flush probably visible even on the backs of his knees. Harry’d been at the centre of situations far worse, but in the moment it seemed like the most mortifying of his life. 

And then Goyle said, uncomfortable and apologetic, “I won’t be able to properly measure his inseam if… If…”

Harry closed his eyes. “Oh my _god._ ” 

“It’s fine,” Draco said with a little snort, and Harry opened his eyes. Draco twitched him a sardonic smile. He returned to the chair, folding himself into it and doing nothing to hide the hard outline of his cock curving towards his hip. “You used a charm, remember?”

Harry looked down reflexively. Saw with astonishment that, as devastating and arousing as kissing Draco had been, his pants were no tighter than they’d been before he stripped; none of what he’d felt _all over_ , with Draco’s mouth on his and his fingers in Harry’s hair, had presented itself visibly in Harry’s prick. 

Still not quite convinced he wouldn’t come at the slightest provocation, Harry took a few deep breaths. “Right,” he said, voice cracking. “Yeah.” He frowned. “Wait, how—?”

“I told you yesterday,” Draco said, pulling the knot of his tie back to the base of his throat and quirking an eyebrow at him. “I saw gold sparks.”

And Merlin help him, Harry thought he might have, too.

* * *

“I’ve already told you,” Hermione said with a little sniff, “I’m not going to talk about Malfoy with you.” She lifted her wand from the high stack of folders on her desk and gave it a little flick, Summoning the bag from Harry’s hand. Taking out the container and flipping it open, she inhaled deeply, her eyes drifting shut. “But thank you for bribe — I haven’t had lunch yet, and I’m famished.”

Harry resisted the impulse to tell her that he’d meant to eat it himself when he got home — it wouldn’t help his cause any — and gestured to the clock. “Dinner. Lunch was hours ago and Ron said you might not be home until late.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and came in from her doorway, looking around for a place to sit. The last time he’d been to her office, it had been nowhere near this cluttered, all of her files in various cabinets stacked against the walls, the pictures on her shelves unobscured by paperwork, actual seating available to visitors. “I guess you’ve been busier than I realised.”

Hermione paused, a disposable fork in one hand and paper napkins in the other. “You haven’t come by in a while, Harry.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” he said automatically, a ripple of guilt streaking through him when she smiled and shrugged. She set down the napkins and lifted her wand once more, clearing one of her guest chairs of the folders stacked atop it and sending them to rest, precariously, on a different stack near the door. 

“We’ve all been busy,” she said when he sat down. Somehow, the way she instinctively tried to clear him of responsibility made it even worse. They’d all been working, yeah, all been busy. But Hermione and Ron had made time to let him come over; they made time for dinners and visits to the Burrow, and check-ins, and the longer Harry was on holiday, the more he was able to see just how much of his life he’d put on hold in his drive to advance his career. Hermione hadn’t put anything on hold, and it was obvious how engaged she was with her work. Ron hadn’t either, though Harry was pretty sure he had orders that went back for six months or more. They simply seemed to know how to prioritise what was important to them, and it made Harry wonder when he’d stopped doing that.

Sitting in the empty chair, Harry gazed at the window along the wall. In months after she’d first hung her shingle, she’d had it charmed to show not the building wall mere feet away, but vast, calming landscapes: a cool, watery oasis surrounded by hot, drifting sand; Scotland’s green, craggy hills covered in heather; a glimmering ocean that stretched out as far as the eye could see. Now, however, Harry saw a kinetic city view, skyscrapers just starting to come alive with light with as the sun went down. It made him antsy to _do_ something.

“You look really good,” Hermione said, interrupting his reverie. She speared into Harry’s takeaway lasagna once more and popped the bite in her mouth, studying him quietly. Swallowing, she added, “ _Really_ good, Harry.”

“Thanks,” he said, giving her a pained smile. The clothes were brighter than he was used to -- a deep teal shirt offset by the rich jade of his tie (colours he had promised to never try to change) over dark grey trousers -- and designed to attract attention rather than avoid it. He _felt_ a bit like a kid dressed up in an adult’s clothing, but even he had to admit that he looked the part. He toyed with the tip of his tie, his mind wandering to the feel of Draco’s in his hand. “I spent the day with Greg and I was able to leave with more than a few things.”

Hermione’s chewing slowed. She swallowed again and cleared her throat, suddenly very interested in an open file on her desk. “Mm hmm?” she asked, an octave or two higher than her normal voice. “Greg is working as a clothing salesman in that shop the paper mentioned? How odd.”

Harry huffed. “Not as odd as you knowing exactly which Greg I mean without asking,” he said, leaning forward. “You don’t have to actively _lie._ He gave you up.” Hadn’t been able to stop chattering about her, actually, between his enthusiastic detailing of the girl he wanted to marry. Hermione had felt nearly present in the room with them, which Harry appreciated for toning down the boiling tension he felt every time Draco looked at him — and appreciated less when Greg started getting into specifics, because then Draco suddenly started avoiding Harry’s eyes and had decided to leave, claiming a “prior appointment”.

Hermione poked at the lasagna. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Well then it’s a very strange Slytherin campaign to smear you by making you look incredibly selfless,” Harry snapped, irritated. “Come on, Hermione!”

“Come on _what!_ ” she snapped back mulishly. “I _can’t_ talk about them, Harry! These are magically binding contracts, and I wouldn’t break them even if I could! Every citizen should have — _deserves_ — the right to utilise what gifts they’ve been given, their passions, as long as they’re not hurting anyone else. No matter who they are! _Even_ if I don’t like them, or the things they’ve done. And I love you, Harry, but you’ve got no right to come in here to tell me I’m— That I shouldn’t—”

Harry pinned her with a look, jaw so tense it was aching. “Tell you you’re _what_?” he asked. “What have I accused you of, or denied your right to do?”

 

Hermione pressed her lips together and took a deep breath in through her nose. “All right, fine,” she conceded levelly. “But let’s not pretend that you might not have, had you heard anything about this before you needed help from them. I love you, but—”

“Can’t hear that enough,” Harry muttered, slumping back in his chair.

“—but you can be remarkably… single-minded about things,” Hermione said. She shifted, looking down at her food for a moment. “I don’t blame you for it. I’ve been that way. I know why you are. But I want to…” She trailed off, sounding sad. Harry examined the wistful reflection on her face, wanting to stem it somehow, but didn’t know what to say. Hermione sighed. “I wanted to be a better person.”

“You’re the best person I know!” Harry said, horrified. “You and—”

“Ron, yes.” Hermione bit her lip. “Except that you don’t let a lot of people in, Harry. For good reason, sure. But it does limit the people in your life. Anyway,” she said, “when you only open yourself up to the same people because you’re holding grudges against those who’ve done wrong but want to change, history repeats itself. Do you know how long the witch trials were used as part of the pureblood rhetoric? So many of them grew up hearing that they had to protect themselves from people whose only power was strength in numbers and manufactured weapons. So many of them grew up learning things wrong, and I— I didn’t want to contribute to that world. I _won’t._ ”

“Okay,” Harry said, concerned. He searched her face. “Then you won’t be.”

Hermione’s eyes softened. She picked up the container of food and resumed eating with tiny but swift bites. Between them, she said, “Thank you. But I’m still not discussing Malfoy with you.”

Harry snorted. Paused. “What if we discussed… a hypothetical someone _like_ Malfoy?”

“In case or person?” she asked, intrigued.

“Both.”

“No.”

Stymied, Harry cast about for ideas. Slowly, he said, “What if… What if _I_ discussed a hypothetical situation? And you told me how… plausible it was.”

Starting on her garlic bread, Hermione seemed to mull that over. “I think for me to even consider giving you — _hypothetical_ — legal advice under those circumstances, ethically, I’d need to know why you need to know so badly.”

“I want him,” Harry said bluntly. 

Hermione stared, befuddled. Chewing, swallowing. She took another bite.

“Draco,” Harry clarified. “Malfoy. I want him.” Hermione still didn’t react beyond an almost imperceptible knitting between her eyebrows. Fighting off his blush, Harry cleared his throat and said, “I kissed him today. Like that. Draco Mal—” and was cut off by Hermione’s abrupt, sharp inhale, and then a loud, uncontrolled hacking fit that had water streaming from her rounded eyes. 

Harry rushed around her desk, grabbing the napkins and handing them to her. He located an empty coffee mug and cast a quick _Tergeo_ to it before filling it with water and pressing it into her hands. Still coughing, Hermione gulped it down, and Harry pounded her back uneasily until she quieted and waved his hand away. 

“Oh,” she said, the word soft and smothered. She gave another cough, took another drink of water. “Oh.”

Crouching in front of her chair, Harry said, “Was that just surprise, or—”

“I don’t think the word ‘just’ is even a little defensible in that sentence,” she said, giving him such a look of dismay that Harry had to look away. “Oh, Harry. If I’d known that sending you to him would… That you’d… That…”

Harry stood, brushing the dust from his trousers. He leaned against her desk with a sigh, feeling just as awful at her reaction as he’d expected, the hope that had risen during her speech vanishing like smoke. What was less expected was something he’d never felt towards Hermione, something so unfamiliar it took Harry several seconds to identify: offense — and hurt. On both his own behalf, and Draco’s. “You’d have what?” he said, trying to maintain an even tone. “Found someone else? Warned me off him? Because you can help whoever you want, but your love for me gives you the right to tell me who I get to be with?” Despite his best efforts, his voice cracked on the last word. 

Hermione made a lost little sound of protest, her hand landing on his knee. “ _No._ I’m— I’m just—”

“I don’t think the word ‘just’ is very applicable in whatever you’re about to say,” he said, but covered her hand with his anyway. Hermione took a breath and squeezed his knee. Took another and pulled away, her chair creaking as she leaned back in it. She fiddled with the fluffy curls slipping from the clip that held her hair back for a moment and, intensely uncomfortable, Harry laced his fingers together on his lap, resisting the urge to apologise, to take it back. Waiting her out.

“Why don’t you outline for me what sort of hypothetical legal situation you’re curious about,” she said at length, “and I’ll see if I can give you any advice on the matter.”

Harry blew out a breath, relaxing a bit. He looked to the charmed cityscape to collect his thoughts. “There’s this solicitor who does a lot of pro bono work,” he said, “and for a while, she was mainly helping people rebuild their lives and businesses after the war…”

“I know a lot of people like that,” Hermione said, nodding. 

“And somehow, she found out that there was a— specific group—” Harry faltered, trying to recall what Greg had said before getting too uncomfortable to go on, the thing that had made Draco get up and walk out. “—people who were being targeted as a form of punishment for their connections; economically, socially. People that were trying to do better than they’d been taught. And because she’s brilliant, and kind, and _good_ , and believes in justice—”

“Harry,” Hermione whispered.

“—she helped one of them,” Harry said. “Who told another, and another, until a lot of them were seeking her help. And then someone who’d been— monsterous to her, the leader of a subset of the group she was helping, approached her.” Harry shot her a look, caught her staring fixedly down at her files, face pink and shuttered. “But not for himself; for a friend of his. Someone else who didn’t deserve her help, but needed it.”

Delicately, Hermione said, “Whether that’s all true, I’m not sure how any of it pertains to… what you may need to know.”

“I want to know… I want to know what happened to him, to make him change.”

“I can’t tell you that,” she said. “Even if I knew all of it.”

Harry frowned, thinking. “But it’s real, isn’t it? I think it is.” He _wanted_ it to be. “To humble himself enough to come to you on Parkinson’s behalf—”

“I don’t think Draco Malfoy would ever agree to that description of events,” Hermione said dryly. “Let’s assume someone like him… apologised for his behavior, and whoever he spoke to believed it. Let’s assume he’d _been_ humbled, by life. And that someone like your solicitor friend was moved to help. If she was already helping others by, for instance, smoothing the way for business licenses and applications, and representing them against, well, things, it wouldn’t have to mean much more to include him in the process.” Her voice got increasingly strained as she spoke, and when she stopped, she was breathless. 

“It means that she thought he was worth helping,” Harry said.

“Which doesn’t mean she’d think he deserved you!”

“No, but she’s rather stubborn,” he said fondly. “And her actions say enough.”

“Harry,” she said plaintively, “don’t be stupid.”

“Hermione,” he mocked, “when have you ever been able to stop me?”

Hermione laughed quietly, but shook her head. “Your… interest,” she said, grimacing, “in him could interfere with your promotion, if... Harry, Malfoy’s not _liked_ in some Ministry circles, and—” Her teeth snapped shut with an audible click and she gave him a startled blink, followed by a helpless shrug.

“Magically binding?” he asked. She glared at him and nodded. Harry leaned down, brushed a sympathetic kiss against her cheek, and straightened, looking around her disordered office. Despite how overwhelmed with work she was, she’d been smiling when he’d arrived, even before she noticed him. Disturbed, he realised he couldn’t remember the last time _he’d_ found work so enjoyable. “I love my job,” he said softly, “but it’s probably time I stopped letting it decide my entire life.”

It felt good to say, a relief of such weight it made Harry wonder just how long he’d been feeling that way, but had been too focused on his goals to let himself think about it. 

With what looked like extreme effort, Hermione pried her teeth apart, carefully working her lower jaw from side to side. Looking conflicted, she seemed to debate with herself for several seconds, then settled on saying, “Do you like him? Not just—?”

“I… A bit,” Harry admitted. It might be in a confused, frustrated way that seemed destined to drive him mad and make him question all of his life choices, but it unavoidably shared certain properties with things like— fascination and amusement, and even newfound respect. Certainly with attraction. “Yeah, maybe. It’s probably nothing more than a spot of fun, but…” He shrugged, no more prepared to think about it than Hermione was to hear it. 

“Oh.” Hermione smiled, too tightly to pull off nonchalance, but with the sort of determined understanding that was one of the very reasons he loved her so much. “All right, then. Thank you for telling me… and for the food.”

“I actually bought it for myself,” Harry informed her, grinning when she squeaked, and thinking he might as well keep going, as long as he had the momentum. “But it works out perfectly — I haven’t been to Sunday dinner at the Burrow in an age.”

* * *

Draco had the screen up at his studio when Harry arrived the following morning. Harry checked his watch — in his eagerness to be on time, he’d left far too early — and resigned himself to wait, but had barely signed in before Draco walked out, the screen shimmering around him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, something complicated passing over his face as he walked up to Harry, “the article in the paper brought in a few—”

Harry kissed him, gripping him tight around the waist and pulling him flush the way he’d imagined all night. Draco stiffened, mouth frozen around the word he’d been about to say, and then his body abruptly moulded to fit into Harry’s, his head slanting sideways and lips softening, parting. Unbalanced by the total surrender of that response, Harry stumbled him back until Draco’s hips hit the reception desk. He filled his palms with Draco’s arse, massaged it, feeling Draco’s cock harden and rise through his thin trousers as lightning-fast as Harry’s own, and when Draco curled a calf around the back of his knee, tried to lift him onto the the desktop, tried to climb up after him — but Draco dropped his leg to regain solid footing on the floor and tore his mouth away. 

Harry sought it again, breath coming in short, ragged bursts, punctuated by Draco’s panting. He managed a lick over Draco’s lower lip, a kiss against his jaw. Draco squirmed, kissing him back and pulling away, clutching at Harry and pushing at him. He grazed the shell of Harry’s ear with his teeth and gasped, “I suppose this means you thought about it for more than a few hours,” then kissed Harry once more, even harder. Harry rolled his hips in answer, grinding slowly against Draco, excitement shivering through him when Draco untucked the back of his shirt, warm fingers slipping up the dip of Harry’s spine. Draco kissed his mouth, his cheek, bit at his neck and traced the cords of it with his tongue, and between all of it, got out, “Potter, I have— someone under meditative charms and— I think we’ve— _fuck_ — been indiscreet enough— already with yesterday— and— _Harry._ ”

The words penetrated as if through a fog, and Harry muttered, “They can’t see us, right?”

Draco scoffed and pushed at Harry’s shoulders, glaring at him disapprovingly when Harry snagged a last kiss, but returning the kiss all the same. His cheeks were bright red, and he stayed wilted against the reception desk for a few seconds, propped on his hands behind him as he caught his breath. “I have to— I’m not cancelling, but I’ll have to Apparate by yours in a bit.”

“Okay,” Harry said. Draco’s trousers were tenting so blatantly, his mouth flooded with saliva; he thought he could probably drop to his knees right there and— it probably wouldn’t even take more than a few seconds—

“ _No,_ ” Draco barked. Harry blinked, cock throbbing, and took a dazed step back. He dragged his gaze up to Draco’s with the petty thought that at least he wasn’t the only one who was irritated and turned on. 

“You started it,” he said under his breath.

“You just _attacked_ me!” Draco said, pushing up from the desk. 

“Yesterday morning,” Harry said, pointing at— well, the Obscurification screen. He dropped his hand. “You basically offered me sex right there!”

“Then you should have taken it right there!” Draco said. “You can’t just collect whenever you feel like it!”

“I— can’t?” 

Draco started to shake his head. Hesitated. Then: “No! Well— No. _No._ I have to be in a— I’m about to conduct a…” He looked at Harry’s mouth, and Harry felt a growl well up in his throat, thighs tensing to push into Draco’s space again, but Draco exhaled hard and held up a hand. “Give me a charm, whatever it was you used on yourself yesterday. And then go home, and I’ll come by later.” 

“Do it yourself,” Harry said.

“Just! Potter—!” 

Harry sighed and waved his hand resentfully, aiming a numbing charm at the tantalisingly long outline of Draco’s prick. Draco shuddered, eyes widening, and held himself still for a long moment.

“Okay, that was a very bad idea,” he said. 

“You _asked_ me to.” 

“As evidenced, I think we can safely say that most of my ideas in regards to you are not my best,” Draco said. But the tension on his face was fading, and he ran his fingers through his hair. “Listen, I won’t be long, so—” He waited for a moment, returning Harry’s look with one of impatience. “—get out?”

Harry cracked a strained laugh and walked stiffly to the door. “Well that’s a bit rude, isn’t it?”

“Oh _shut—_ ” Harry heard behind him, pleased when he closed the door faster than Draco could get the rest out.

He took his wins where he could find them.

* * *

“I didn’t come here for this,” Draco informed him.

“Then you probably shouldn’t have shoved your tongue in my mouth when I opened the door,” Harry said, and proceeded to suck on Draco’s tongue when Draco did it again. He didn’t know how long they’d been making out, exactly, but Draco’d so far resisted Harry’s efforts to turn it into anything more than that. He’d refused Harry’s tug to position him over his lap; he’d shifted away when Harry tried to press him into the cushions. Most successfully, he kept using duplicitous methods of distraction involving the slow removal of shirts and ghosts of touches through Harry’s trousers, as though he’d been trained in acts of extreme cruelty. And edging.

It was… surprisingly hot. 

“We’re meant to be working,” Draco gasped as Harry sucked just under his jawline. “I didn’t— _nngghh, fuck,_ leave my business to fuck around with you.”

Harry nosed along his throat, inhaling the clean salt-smell of his skin and some sort of essential oil, sandalwood perhaps, before pulling away. Draco stared at him with lust-blown eyes, his shirt entirely unbuttoned and hanging half off his shoulders — unlike Harry, whose shirt Draco had tossed unceremoniously to the floor at some point. Harry grabbed Draco’s wrist and guided Draco’s hand to his cock, applying pressure and biting back a groan. 

“We’re taking a break,” Harry said. 

“We haven’t _started_ yet. _Fuck._ ” Draco twisted his wrist to remove it from Harry’s grip but left his hand in place, fingers roaming over the length of Harry’s erection. 

“That’s what I was hoping, yeah,” Harry said, then promptly lost his breath when Draco squeezed. He reached out, skating a hand down Draco’s stomach and watching his face as he slipped it further, over Draco’s trousers, thumbing the button on his flies before covering the bulge in the fabric. 

Draco’s eyelids lowered; his hips jerked. "What are we even…" 

Harry didn't know, but he was encouraged enough to say, “I want to suck you off.”

Draco cursed under his breath, dragging the heel of his hand down, turning it to cup Harry’s balls and tug them through the fabric. “I brought full place settings.”

Harry stroked over the shape of Draco’s cock. “Kinky.”

Draco closed his eyes, gulped. Twitched his hips a little faster. Harry leaned back in, stealing a kiss just above Draco’s collarbone, then dipped his head, trailing kisses down Draco’s chest to his nipple. He flicked at it with his tongue, took it in his mouth. Sucked it. Draco made a high, strangled noise, and Harry drifted to the other, pleased when the tension leaked from Draco’s posture. Pleased with the whole course of events, honestly; his sex life had been approaching barren of late, and even when he was able to indulge, it was never with someone he knew anymore. Never with someone who knew him, someone he wanted to take his time with. Harry’d forgotten how _fun_ it could be. Granted, he and Draco hadn’t precisely talked about, well, anything yet, but Harry considered it promising that the nerves Draco rubbed wrong could be so easily soothed by… this. Harry took off his glasses and slid to the floor.

“Potter,” Draco sighed. He tipped his head back as Harry thumbed over the buttons of his flies, then popped them open, one at a time. “I—” He broke off, lifting his hips to let Harry tug his trousers down a bit. The head of his cock was swollen and red, pushing out from the placket of his plain black boxers, his fingers digging into the sofa cushion on either side of him. Harry pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the ashy feathering of hair on stomach just above his waistband and Draco jumped, blinking at the ceiling. His chest a quick rise-and-fall, he muttered, “Remind me to school you in time management,” and then he lifted his head and looked Harry in the eye. Arched an eyebrow. “Well, get on with it. We’re not all of us on paid holiday.”

Harry quirked him a grin. “Doesn’t the host get to dictate the order of events?” he asked, lowering his head to mouth along Draco’s cock through the cotton of his pants. It jerked under his ministrations. 

“A good host would ask their guest what they’d prefer.”

“Ah. Well then.” 

Draco sucked in a sharp pull of air as Harry tucked his cock back fully into his pants, then eased his waistband down. Harry’s breath caught with appreciation; surrounded by a nest of pale blond curls, Draco’s cock jutted out, glistening at the slit, his foreskin hugged tight around the head. Just the sight was _painfully_ arousing, and Harry licked his lips, reaching down to shakily work his own flies open as he glided Draco’s foreskin back. 

“This…” Draco said, gaze flicking from Harry’s face to his shoulder as Harry released his prick from the confines of his pants, “this is just to… take the edge off. We’ll simply… do it once, and then wait until after the benefit to… see.” 

“Very good plan,” Harry agreed. “If they’ve changed the definition of ‘good’ in the dictionary to mean ‘completely daft.’ I think—”

Draco slanted a dark smile downward and curled his fingers around the base of his cock, stroked it. Shutting up, Harry fit his own cock into his palm to match Draco’s movements, breath coming faster, and opened his mouth when Draco pressed his cock to Harry’s lips. He let Draco trace them, slicking them up with his precome. Harry licked it off with intentional slowness, and then took him inside, allowing Draco to fill his mouth. 

“Oh Christ,” Harry heard as he began to suck. Draco groaned, a deep, rough sound, and Harry hummed with satisfaction, tonguing around the head of Draco’s prick each time Draco’s hips fell back to the sofa. Letting his throat relax each time Draco pushed back in. He’d forgotten how rawly powerful it could feel getting on his knees, and there was something especially compelling about doing it for _Draco_ , the act of playing the supplicant for someone Harry’d sworn, once upon a time, would never best him. But it was. Powerful and so fucking hot, Harry had to slow down the strokes of his hand over himself. He closed his eyes, the absurdity of the moment flashing through his head — how dangerously close he was to coming just from getting Draco Malfoy’s cock in his mouth. 

It made him smile around Draco's girth, and he peeked up to find Draco staring down at him with a look of such furious need on his face, Harry’s amusement vanished. He dropped his gaze and picked up the pace again, fisting his own dick roughly and bobbing his head over Draco’s cock, fucking his own throat with it, driven on by each of Draco’s breathless moans — and one of his own vibrating through him when Draco’s hands landed on Harry’s hair to clench there repetitively, hips faltering. Harry let Draco guide his head, losing rhythm but gaining speed, his saliva dripping down Draco’s shaft as Draco started moving with him again. And then Draco pushed Harry’s head down, holding him there with a tight, gusted, “ _Ah! Harry!_ ”, and embedded his cockhead deep in Harry’s throat, his cock pulsing on Harry’s tongue. Harry swallowed around him, eyes watering and his balls drawing tight between his thighs, his jaw aching so perfectly he could barely stand it. 

Draco loosened his fingers from Harry’s stinging scalp and Harry pulled away, licking once into Draco’s slit just to feel him shiver before letting his cock slip out of his mouth. He took a few deep breaths and glanced up; Draco looked wrecked, skin flushed from stomach to hairline, eyes glazed and shocked. He licked his lips and rasped, “You didn’t come.”

Harry shook his head, and Draco jerked his chin, an order — _Come here._ Even moving was difficult, he was so close, but Harry dutifully pushed up from the floor, crawling in a straddle over Draco’s softening cock. Draco met his eyes, still breathing heavily, and brushed Harry’s hand off himself, replacing it with his own. 

“Good,” he murmured, keeping his touch maddeningly light. “I wanted to make you do it.”

“Then _do it_ ,” Harry said, bucking impatiently against him. Draco wrapped his fist tighter and smirked, wanking him firmly once, twice, fingers curling over Harry’s sopping wet glans, a deadly serious tease. But on the third stroke, he clenched his fist around the crown of Harry’s cock, and Harry came hard, shocks of shivery tension rippling through each of his muscles and the world fading grey about him. When he opened his eyes, panting, he saw Draco’s chest was striped with his come, a few pale drops even on the underside of his chin. Draco looked as though he was trying not to smile — which only served to make him look more smug than he might have otherwise.

“Now that that’s done,” he said composedly as Harry was still trying to reorient the world around him, “we’ve got some work to do.”


	6. Chapter 6

_Harry,_

_Malfoy?????? Really?????????????_

_When I told you about making that table for him I DIDN’T MEAN IT WAS OKAY TO FUCK HIM ON IT!!!!!_

_STOP! I WASN’T ABLE TO EAT TODAY!_

_Ron_

_Ron,_

_Thanks for the idea. We’ve mostly been fucking on the floor because we broke my sofa and bed and kitchen counter. But the table is reinforced, right?_

_Harry_

_Draco,_

_Attached is Ron’s Owl. Thoughts?_

_Harry_

_Harry,_

_If you ever again suggest using my therapeutic table as a surface to fuck on, it will never happen anywhere. Do you have any idea how much gold I spent on it? Besides, I already told you: touching is off limits until after the gala. I have very little time to get you up to scratch._

_Having said that, I’d like to enquire a) why you told Weasley, and b) whether you have one of those Muggle recording devices we can use when I actually do take you apart, so we can send him a visual. Thank you._

_Draco_

_Harry,_

_I’m never talking to you again._

_Ron_

_Draco,_

_1) I hadn’t got around to telling Ron yet, but Hermione saved me the task.  
2) I’m on it._

_Harry  
P.S. I’ll wager 10 Galleons you touch me first tomorrow._

*

_Harry,_

_Included are a list of the fabrics used in your new wardrobe (with descriptions of the items), and a corresponding list of fabrics that would likely offend foreign dignitaries (and which, and why). Please read them over and be prepared for me to question you on them tomorrow._

_Draco  
P.S. I’m not paying you ten Galleons, I never agreed to that, and it was an accident, and it’s not happening again, regardless._

_Harry,_

_Fine, I’ll talk to you, but keep Malfoy out of it._

_Ron  
P.S. Thanks for the pizzas._

*

_Harry,_

_You did quite well over lunch — care to explain how you’re suddenly in the possession of exquisite table manners?_

_My apologies for having to cut our session short today, though I’d like to point out that we would have had far more time if you weren’t so determined to sexually harass me. Aren’t you supposed to be noble and self-sacrificing? Where on earth did you get that reputation?_

_Draco_

_Draco,_

_Just for you, I’ve accessed loads of childhood trauma with a fun mnemonic device: remembering when my aunt used to box my ears for placing a fork in the wrong position before one of her dinner parties. You’re welcome. Now tell me how to control my nerves at a formal function, and we’ll be all set._

_I might not be so determined to sexually harass you if you were inclined to wear trousers I couldn’t see your cock through. (This isn’t a complaint.) Or if you hadn’t got hard in previously mentioned tissue-trousers when I bent over to take off my shoes. (Also not a complaint.)_

_Go request back copies of The Prophet for a refresher on my reputation. May, 1998. Or, hell, look at Sunday’s edition._

_Harry_

_Harry,_

_The trousers I work in are perfectly appropriate and in no way see-through; not one of my clients has intimated that they are. The lightweight material is helpful to access the energy in a room, which you would see if you would let me work on you._

_Draco_

_Draco,_

_You think people want to give up seeing your cock bounce through them?_

_But if you really didn’t know, as much as it pains me to say, I might suggest getting Greg to make you a lightweight set of pants to wear under them._

_I’m actually feeling pretty good lately. I don’t think I need any sort of session, though if you want to schedule a block of time, I’m sure we could make good use of it._

_Harry  
P.S. I just came so hard remembering your hands on my cock. Even if you did make me ruin trousers that cost roughly the same amount as a Firebolt._

_Harry,_

_ We aren’t doing that again! _

_Draco  
P.S. Fuck you, me too._

*

_Draco,_

_Can’t sleep. Feel like company?_

_—H_

_Harry,_

_I think we both know that’s not a good idea, and my wards are in place. But I’ve not gone to bed yet: Why can’t you sleep?_

_Draco_

_Draco,_

_Dreams. Sometimes I wonder if that’s one of the reasons why I never complain about pulling extra shifts. It helps to be exhausted when I go to bed. Funny thing is that they’re never what you’d expect them to be about anymore, not dying or fighting or being stuck in the dark. (My room was a cupboard before Hogwarts.) Mostly they’re about good things, but with… I don’t know. A disturbing quality. Like, I had one once of my mum, but she kept saying there was something wrong with my face and I finally realised it was because I was missing my scar. I couldn’t figure out what that meant. And sometimes I have this recurring dream where Snape is kind to me, and I know it’s just because he wants to look at my eyes. He was in love with my mother, did you know that? They were friends, when they were kids._

_Anyway, the dreams are rather fucked up. I don’t suppose you get them, too._

_—H_

_Harry,_

_I’d heard… rumours, yes. About your mother and Professor Snape. I don’t suppose it might help to tell you that once when I was serving detention by organising his private potions’ stores, I stumbled across a photograph charmed into glass of a laughing girl with red hair. The glass around her face had been etched with edelweiss (which symbolises courage and devotion), and red carnations (which symbolise a grief-stricken heart). I don’t think Snape protected you to keep her alive; I think he did it because she would have wanted him to._

_I think the real problem with your face is that you refuse to replace your glasses._

_Of course I get dreams. I won’t appall you with my own._

_Draco  
(P.S. When you said cupboard…?)_

_Draco,_

_I don’t know if it helps, but thank you. That was nice to know. I don’t have many things that connect me with them. My grandmother’s ring came as a complete surprise — I guess it wasn’t given to my dad because he married my mum before he turned 21. There’s some sort of magic on it that doesn’t agree with betrothals made before that age. I guess you know about magic like that, right? (Maybe we should have a lesson on archaic forms of magic.) Anyway, I like it._

_When I said cupboard, I meant cupboard. As in, under the stairs. My Muggle family didn’t like me much. It’s fine, it was a long time ago._

_I said I didn’t get those sorts of nightmares anymore, not that I never had. I can guarantee nothing you told me about yours would shock me. If you want._

_—H_

_Harry,_

_Yes, yes, your blasé attitude is very impressive: You were severely abused and/or neglected and/or imprisoned somehow as a child, but it means nothing. I frequently dream about being devoured by a giant snake, or being unable to stop a group of Death Eaters following through on Voldemort’s threat to have them sexually assault my mother, or burning to death because you didn’t come back to me in the room of hidden things, and your stoicism is so remarkable I’m sure you’re reading this with a faint, benevolent smile upon your face._

_...You did ask._

_Working generational magic embedded in jewelry is quite rare, and it’s good you’re able to appreciate its personal value. Have you heard of magical antiquarians? I don’t think there’s one in London — like mine, it’s a rare skill — but they read vibrations from items, and may be able to tell you more about your familial history. Simply a thought._

_Sleepy yet?_

_Draco_

_Draco,_

_It was a good thought, thanks. That sounds interesting. I guess someone who’s been raised knowing their line for the last five generations wouldn’t need something like that, right?_

_I didn’t read it with a benevolent smile, no — just a burst of rage that shattered my bedroom lamp, because I can’t kill him all over again. And I’m sorry I gave you the impression that my childhood doesn’t bother me. I don’t actually tell many people about it (obviously), so that’s probably a good indicator of how it makes me feel._

_Not sleepy yet, but I could probably be convinced to take a sip of Dreamless Sleep if I thought you might be thinking of sucking me off tomorrow._

_—H_

_Harry,_

_Take the Dreamless Sleep. I’m not getting within a thestral’s length of your cock tomorrow, but… I am now thinking of it. Would you want me on my knees, or lying back so you could fuck my mouth?_

_Draco_

_Draco,_

_FUCK._

_What if I were the one lying back, and you were sitting on my face? I could eat you open. Do you like being rimmed? I don’t think I’ve marntioned today how fuckable your arse is. I’d like to spend time fingring you while you sucked my cock and gotit nice and wet._

_Harry_

_Harry,_

_Merlin, what a filthy little slut you are. You’re already wanking aren’t you? I bet you’re thinking of it right now: pushing your tongue into my arse while I moan around your cock; fingerfucking me with one at first, you fucking tease, and then two and three; spitting into my hole each time you add one until I’m delirious and begging. And then you’d… what? Push me face down into the mattress is what you’d do, isn’t it? Make me hold my pretty arse open for you so you could shove your cock into it. Would you give it to me hard, Harry?_

_More importantly, do you liktaking it hard?_

_Draco_

_Draco,_

_Yes. To both quastions. I’mgoing to fuck you for so long it makes you cry, I want to pin your wrists behind your back soyou cant even touch your cock, want you to come from being stuffed withmine. Feel youclench around myprick___________________

_I’m the filthy little slut? What a hypocrite. Just for that, I’m not cleaning up the parchment. Don’t think I’m the only one who can’t hold a quill steady when I’m stroking off. _

_Are you still going? I’d be happy to help: I think I’d like to pull out just before you come, before we both do. Then I’ll push you flat against the bed and suck your arsehole for awhile until you’re ready to pop. Lick down between your thighs, pull your bollocks into my mouth. I can imagine what a picture you’d make, gasping into the pillows and grinding against the sheets. And when you’re almost mad from it, I’ll slide back in and pound you until you come and come and come._

_...Are you sure you don’t want company tonight?_

_—H_

_Harry,_

_You’ve barely a week left until you go back to work, not even two until the benefit. We’ll be spending most of it on dancing and interacting with the public. You are not to touch me._

_Draco_  
P.S. Go to sleep, my owl is exhausted.  
P.P.S. How dare you accuse me of wanking.  
P.P.P.S. I’m not cleaning the parchment either. 

*

_Harry,_

_The Prophet has apparently received a tip from someone who may or may not have witnessed something they might not have been supposed to see today in Draco’s studio. How would you like me to handle this?_

_Astoria_

_Draco,_

_Astoria sent me this. What should I say?_

_Harry_

_Harry,_

_Why on earth are you asking me? I’m sure it’s none of my business._

_Draco_

_Draco,_

_How the fuck is it none of your business? We made out for two bloody hours today! (Which, I feel the need to point out, you started.) I told you that walk-in customer saw something. What would you like me to say?_

_Harry_

_Harry,_

_They didn’t see, they only inferred (likely because you left a glaring love bite on my neck, so thank you for that). I still don’t understand why you’re wasting my time asking for my opinion. Tell them nothing happened, there’s nothing between us, etc. etc. Which reminds me, you should begin scouting around for a date to the gala._

_Draco_

_Draco,_

_I was simply asking ~~my~~ a friend for an opinion, the way any decent person would do if the press involved them. I’m sorry for wasting your time, I’ll start looking for a date immediately. _

_Spending tomorrow with Ginny, by the way. Have to cancel._

_HJP_

_Astoria,_

_Nothing happened. Draco fell and I was helping him up and tripped, and there was a bit of a scuffle when Draco’s customer walked in, so I understand how it might look bad (and sound ridiculous). Go ahead and tell them anything that will take the heat off, and thank you._

_Harry_

_Copy Owl Statement for Harry Potter:_

_To: The Daily Prophet_  
Attn: Shista Kettleburn  
Re: Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy 

_There’s nothing to it. I’m almost sorry it’s so easily resolved, but both Harry and Draco are too careful about their private lives to be involved in salacious activities in a public space without so much as warding the door. As I stated in my Owl correcting Sunday’s edition, Harry Potter isn’t seeing anyone at the moment, even casually; printing unsubstantiated rumours would be legally unwise._

_Astoria Greengrass  
Greengrass Public Relations_

*

_Harry,_

_Are you over your strop yet, or will you be cancelling tomorrow’s appointment too? Please let me know._

_Your friend,  
Draco_

_Harry,_

_Sorry to disturb your holiday, but unfortunately the Wizengamot has proclaimed it necessary to search the files of individual Aurors. Do not come in, that is an order. I’m simply having trouble accessing yours through your wards in place, and would rather not have to explain to them that you’ve used such an excess of magic on your office, especially if it was unintended. If there’s a word you use with the incantation to disable your wards, you can Owl it to me at home._

_Gawain_

_Gawain,_

_Don’t worry — after we found out in last year’s audit that someone had vandalised some of my files, I strengthened my office wards to make them accessible only to myself or two members of the Wizengamot. They should have no trouble opening them._

_Harry_

_Draco,_

_Cancelling to see a friend who’s in town three times a year is a strop?_

_Just out of curiosity, how much do you charge for a session, again? I can be there tomorrow at ten._

_Harry_

_Harry,_

_I have you scheduled for something else for the next few days, and afterwards you need to practice walking about Diagon without a Glamour (and yes, you have to). I'll book some time for you on Friday._

_It’ll be on the house. See you in the morning._

_Draco  
P.S. Wear a suit._

* * *

Draco was waiting by the time Harry got to his studio in the morning. Harry shut the door behind himself with too much force and, breathless, drew to a stop. “I’m sorry. Less than,” he checked his watch, “five minutes.”

“Mm.” Draco looked him up and down. “At least whatever you stopped to save didn’t ruin your clothing. What was it this time, a baby seal?”

For a beat, Harry considered confessing that he’d simply had trouble deciding on what to wear from the new abundance of choices in his wardrobe. “An orphanage, actually. I got fifteen children out, then stayed to help them rebuild. They named the new building after me.”

Draco scoffed. “As if there aren’t already enough things named after you.” He shook his head when Harry sat down to remove his shoes. “No, leave them on,” he said, and Harry glanced up curiously, realising Draco was wearing a suit as well. His was navy, a good offset to his colouring, with a silvery waistcoat and matching tie, and he let Harry look him over for a few seconds before calmly saying, “You look handsome. That suits you.”

Harry started, face flushing hot. It didn't sound like a jibe, but... He re-tied the laces of his dress shoes and stood, feeling more awkward than he had while picking out the damned clothes. “I never thought if you as the punning type.”

“It's a compliment,” Draco said. “While not required, it does have the effect of… smoothing the flow of conversation. When there’s no alcohol available, that is. Don’t ever lie to give one, though — another good lesson. There will always be something genuine to say, and false compliments will always sound that way.”

“Right. Um.” A lesson. Still, there was the kernel of something else there — that Draco really did like the way he looked, really did find him handsome. Harry thought his charcoal suit was rather plain in comparison to Draco’s with its shimmery fabrics, but he finally nodded. “Well. Thank you. You look handsome, too.”

Draco tipped him a measured smile. “Thank you.”

Harry put his hands in his pockets for something to do rather than start rambling — and the urge to was strong. It occurred to him with an uncomfortable jolt that he’d missed seeing Draco the day before, and not simply for the heat that he’d come to expect would flare between them; Harry’d missed _talking_ to him, surprising him, even missed his insults. They no longer seemed quite so acidic; or perhaps Harry simply had got to know Draco enough to appreciate the subtext of whatever he was saying. Either way, the day prior now seemed like a loss, with Draco standing before him close enough to touch, and Harry ruefully admitted to himself that Draco had been right — he had been having a bit of a strop by cancelling last-minute. He simply hadn’t known how to feel about Draco’s easy dismissal of… whatever it was he thought they were doing.

Not that Harry had much of an idea.

“I’m not...” Harry sighed. It felt— _weird_ to be with Draco and not touching him, to not immediately see the glitter of his eyes and know he wanted to be touched, to see Draco behaving so reservedly. Even during the frequent breaks Draco made them take over the week to study — subtleties of traditional wizarding trade gifting, the nuances of latin incantations in different accents, and several hours spent discussing modern hair fashions that Harry hadn’t paid attention to (because _why?_ ) — the air between them had seemed to hum with anticipation. It was easier that way, an extremely pleasant… fallback, of sorts. “I’m not sure what to do here,” he said. “I didn’t sleep very well. Are you waiting for me to apologise for yesterday?”

Draco blinked a few times, rapidly, and then entirely discarded the question. “Why didn’t you sleep? Does it have something to do with your decision to let me work on you?”

Harry rolled his shoulders and nodded. “Sort of. It was nothing, I just— I got an Owl from work. It made me a bit tense. You don’t really have to—”

“I’ve scheduled you for Friday,” Draco said, his eyes warming and lips pulling up to one side. Harry relaxed, surprised and pleased that it could be resolved like this between them: easily, calmly, no wands drawn. Then Draco said, “Even though you didn’t pay me for yesterday’s cancellation.”

“Oh, shit, I forgot, I—” Harry broke off, smiling helplessly when Draco snorted an inelegant laugh. 

“It’s fine, Harry. Well,” he said, amused, “it’s a little shameful — you’re perhaps the wealthiest wizard in England. But I’d rather drop the clause of monetary payment, regardless. It’s getting inconvenient tallying up how many hours we spend working versus how many hours we spend… not working.”

“Oh.” Harry exhaled and processed that. His stomach fluttered. “I don’t think it’ll be a hardship for me to visit your studio a few times a week, though. We could still do that. In the interests of promoting it,” he said with a zing of pleasure when Draco arched a wicked eyebrow.

“How thoughtful of you.”

“I’m a wonderful person — at least according to imaginary orphanages and some publications depending on how slow the news day.” Harry grinned. He reached out, Draco’s gaze dropping to follow his hand, and slipped Draco’s tie from where it was tucked into his waistcoat, coiling it around his fist. Draco allowed himself to be pulled a step closer, his lips parting a touch, and tilted his head back to cast a haughty look at Harry down the slender bridge of his nose. Harry waggled his eyebrows. “How often can you revitalise a wizard’s magic, anyway?”

“Depends on what you mean by that.”

“Let me take you to bed,” Harry murmured without thinking. It felt so good to say, right to his face, that he tugged on Draco’s tie and said it again, “Let me.” He was growing hard already, his breath coming faster at the thought, and they’d barely touched. He canted his hips forward, an undemanding brush that proved he wasn’t the only one affected. “Draco. What do— would you like to fuck me first? You can. If that’s what you want.”

“I—” Draco’s breath smelled like sweetened tea, his eyes glazed on Harry’s face. “We… We have an appointment.”

“Cancel,” Harry said, and pulled on his tie again when Draco started to respond, lifting his chin to cover Draco’s open mouth with his own. Draco’s hands flew up to his shoulders, his words breaking off into a low, deep whine as Harry licked into the heat of his mouth, the fingers of his free hand sliding into Draco’s silky hair to hold him in place. Draco gathered him closer, one long hard thigh shifting to move between Harry’s, to rub against his erection, and Harry twitched, shuddering out a gasp against Draco’s lips. Letting go of Draco’s tie, he flicked open the buttons of his waistcoat. He was sliding his hand in to part it when Draco’s fingers suddenly closed over his wrist; he turned his face away, exhaled, then tucked his mouth into the bend of Harry’s neck and bit down roughly. Harry groaned and tried to shake off his grip, sensation shooting down to his groin, but Draco’s fingers tightened.

“It’s too late to cancel,” he rasped with another nip. He darted his tongue over what were almost certainly the imprints of his teeth. “Now stop trying to get your hands down my bloody trousers.”

“I like my hands down your bloody trousers,” Harry said. But slackened his hand until Draco let him go, and dropped his forehead onto Draco’s shoulder, trying to control the erratic tick of his pulse. “What time do we have to be there?”

“We don’t,” Draco said. He held Harry against him for another several seconds before easing him back and turning away. His back to Harry, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and brought it up to his mouth. “She’s coming here.”

“What? For what? Who?”

“Pansy Parkinson,” Parkinson said drolly.

Harry, somehow completely unsurprised that she was behind him, was torn between the desire to turn a glare in her direction or watch in fascination as Draco jumped in place like a scalded cat. Watching Draco won out, and Harry waited until Draco regained his footing, snorted as Draco muttered something about being right back, and finally swivelled to meet Parkinson’s unimpressed gaze when Draco stalked into the back room.

“So tell me,” he said, “do all Slytherins live in each other’s pockets, or am I just lucky?”

“That’s rather ironic, coming from you,” she said, thunking a heavy bookbag onto the reception desk. “Considering the company you keep — and the fact that, of the two of us, he belongs with me.”

Harry pressed his lips together. That— grated. “Does he know that?”

“Of course he does,” Parkinson said loftily. She looked over his shoulder. “Don’t you, darling?”

“Don’t I what?” Draco said. His cheeks were still deeply flushed, but that was the only telltale sign of arousal or embarrassment left — whatever he’d done in the back had got rid of the rest of the evidence.

“Belong with me,” Parkinson said.

“What? Oh. Yes,” Draco said with a preoccupied air, not meeting either of their eyes. He crossed to a high, shelved box on the side wall that Harry’d never seen before. “Of course. Of course I do.”

“You _do?_ ” Harry asked, an odd, sickly burn of anger pitting in his stomach and cooling the rest of his body. It was startling and unpleasant, almost completely foreign — he could only recall having felt it before once in his life. He resolutely turned his mind away from the memory, staring hard at Draco’s back as he lifted the lid from the box to reveal an old-fashioned phonograph. “How?”

“I just do.” Draco gave him a bewildered, distracted look, then frowned as if only just realising Harry felt like splintering another one of his walls. “What? Why are you—? You can’t honestly be that upset that she’s here. Regardless, this isn’t up for negotiation; Pansy spent some time—”

“Blowing him,” she mouthed, smiling smugly. She twiddled her fingers at him in a silent _You can go now_ , and before Harry even knew his hand was twitching, it was holding his wand. Her eyes widened. 

“—teaching formal dancing less— What the shitting fuck, Potter, put that away!” Draco said, a verbal lashwhip of astonishment. Harry didn’t break her gaze, didn’t move, wanting with every fibre of his being to meet the challenge on her face, but then Draco was standing next to him, one hand exerting ruthless pressure to force Harry’s arm down. “What the hell did you say to him?” he asked Parkinson. But his tone rang with a sort of exasperation so familiar and— and _fond_ , Harry almost brandished his wand at her again. Draco huffed. “And why aren’t you wearing a Muggle gown, I asked you to wear a Muggle gown,” he said, and Harry finally understood that Draco and Parkinson were speaking at cross-purposes. He made note of the incongruity of her dress: Muggle jeans and a Hello Kitty t-shirt. A far cry from witch robes or the pleated skirts and knee socks she so favoured in school.

“I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true,” Parkinson said, that gimlet stare still steady on Harry. “And I have a class this afternoon, and I need to go to the library before then. I’m not scrounging up a gown for _him._ ”

Harry could feel the brand of Draco’s eyes on his cheek. He tucked his wand back into his sleeve and looked at him. Smiled and crooked a finger. Brows drawing together, Draco leaned in. Harry put his mouth to Draco’s ear and murmured, “If you’re wondering how much she saw, I think we can safely assume a _lot_ ,” and caught Draco’s earlobe between his teeth, laving his tongue against it before letting it go. Draco made a high, shocked sound, frozen in place long enough for Harry to add, “She seems a bit jealous.”

“What are you saying to him?” Parkinson demanded. “Draco, what is he saying to you?” Draco straightened, a new wash of colour in his face, and glared at Harry. Harry glared back, relaxing slightly when Draco glanced at Parkinson and rubbed a hand over his face.

“She’s not jealous, she simply doesn’t like you; there’s a difference,” he said. “Pansy, stop provoking him and come to the centre of the room.”

“No,” she said stubbornly. “I didn’t know you were fucking him when I agreed to help.”

“It's important, and— for Granger,” Draco said. "And I'm not fucking him!"

“Yes, you are so fucking me!” Harry said.

“Well, you’d better not start," Parkinson said, flashing Draco a warning glance. 

“Can we send her a copy of the videotape?” Harry asked. 

“Good Merlin, will you both shut up!” Draco barked. He clapped his hands together sharply. “Get in the centre of the fucking room!”

Grudgingly, they both moved to obey, and then Draco clapped again, and Parkinson flounced the dark sweep of her hair back and stepped into Harry’s space. Draco made an impatient sound and poked Harry in the shoulder; Harry took her hand and dropped the other to her waist. Draco stomped over to the phonograph.

“I liked you better the last time I saw you,” Harry informed her grimly.

“I’ve never liked you, not once in my life,” Parkinson murmured, pasting on a sweet smile. “And I don’t trust you, and Draco’s been stupid about you since he was little, and if you hurt him again I don’t care who you are, I’ll kill you myself.”

“Again?” Harry snorted, the scratchy, echoing strains of music filling the studio. He wanted to loathe her as much as he had only a few seconds ago, but rather than antagonising him further as she obviously meant to, the tone of her threat softened something inside him. “We’re adults now, Parkinson.” 

“Because that’s stopped you before?” she said under her breath.

"What the hell does _that_ mean?" Harry asked. 

The sweep of her lashes fluttered and she looked up at him, her brow knitting, but she was cut off by Draco before she could respond. 

"I know you only have an eight am class tomorrow, so please bring both a gown and a set of robes; he needs to practise dancing around formal wear," he said, the rough edges of his fluster gone. Parkinson nodded, grimacing, and Draco sighed. "Very well, let's begin."

"When do I get to practise with you?" Harry asked him.

"When you master a simple box step," Parkinson snapped. "Now try not to break all of my toes."


	7. Chapter 7

If anyone had ever told Harry that there’d come a day when he’d prefer spending time alone in a room with Pansy Parkinson and Draco Malfoy to walking down Diagon Alley, he’d have rushed them to the Janus Thickey ward of St Mungo’s. But against all laws of nature, once he’d spent some time observing the way Draco and Parkinson behaved with each other — a bit like Harry did with Hermione, only meaner — he was able to settle the disquieting streak that tore through him whenever they paired to show Harry a dance. By the third day, Parkinson had stopped scowling so hard when Draco swept Harry into his arms to demonstrate how to appropriately follow, and Harry even calmed down enough not to tread on the poofy, heavily ruffled skirts of the gowns and formal robes she wore — and he was almost (though not quite) able to concede that it was possible she might grow on him eventually. 

Like a fungus, maybe. But still.

More difficult were Draco’s insisted-upon trips to Diagon Alley; Harry was besieged by people at each and every turn on the first day, a constant stream of strangers intruding upon their lunch at the nouveau magical gastronomy restaurant Draco had picked, a near mob waiting outside when they were finished with their meal. They largely complimented Harry and ignored Draco — which Draco muttered was “promising” — but so many of them wanted to _touch_ Harry, as if to lay hands on a talisman that might bring them luck, he didn’t even try to convince Draco to come home with him, it left him so unsettled. 

The next day was marginally better; Draco presented him with a buffering charm to wear on a leather cord around his neck, which gave Harry a slight cushion of space. But he still felt unable to simply walk away when he got overwhelmed and didn’t get home until well after dark, so on the third, Draco added a propelling charm to wear next to the first, which reminded whoever wanted to talk to Harry that they had more pressing matters elsewhere, thereby shortening any exchange he had to under thirty seconds. 

He still ended up spending about three hours on the street.

“It’s your own fault, you know,” Draco said as they walked up the stairs to his studio. “You don’t want to hurt their feelings.”

“Who wants to hurt someone’s feelings?” Harry asked, and coughed a laugh when Draco shot him a dry look. “That was rhetorical.”

They pulled to a stop in front of Draco’s ramshackle door, and Draco pressed two fingers to the placard. It lit up at his touch, the chimes of falling wards tinkling through the narrow corridor. Draco turned to face him, leaning comfortably back against the door jam, and Harry eyed the rumpling of fabric visible above the shoulder of his shirt as it hiked up, a tiny imperfection in the pristine image he liked to project. Harry reached out and pinched it. Rubbed it between his thumb and index finger.

“Are you going to invite me in?” he asked. 

“Of course not,” Draco said. But his breath hitched — he’d thought about it, even if for only a second. 

Harry stepped closer. “Can I invite myself?” 

Draco paused, then inhaled what had to be at least four lungfuls of air in one long breath through his nose. Considering. It had been days since they’d touched, as if Pansy timed her arrivals to coincide with Harry’s. ...As if Draco himself was orchestrating a distance between them when she wasn’t around — darting a look down the corridor, even now, as though only just realising they were completely alone. Harry let his hand fall, surprised by both the hesitation in Draco’s clipped accent, and the subject matter, when Draco finally spoke. 

“You haven’t needed nearly as much help as I assumed you would. As you thought you did,” he said. “You could run for Head Auror and have the position in a day, if they don’t give it to you outright.”

“I’d— I wouldn’t,” Harry said, confused. “Even if they don’t, Robards is— committed. Trustworthy. And you saw me out there.”

“Yes, and I can’t say I understand it,” Draco said. “You didn’t used to be like that. Even after the war, I read— You’d give interviews, here and there. Talk about the importance of understanding people as individuals, about how dangerous it could be to apply singular thought to an entire line of thinking; you used to chat with people in the street and walk away smiling. Now you’re a coil of anxiety when you’re not in your Auror robes.”

“Then relax me,” Harry said, trying for a bit of levity. He didn’t like the direction this was going; Draco spoke too seriously, his eyes on Harry’s face. “Distract me.”

Draco’s expression shuttered. “I think you’re distracted enough,” he said impassively, “but I’ll do what I can about the rest.” His hand found and turned the doorknob at his back, and he stepped into his studio, dropping his gaze. “Tomorrow, during your session.” 

He closed the door.

* * *

Harry slept badly, a constant toss and turn between troubling dreams and frustrated confusion, Draco’s goodbye at the forefront of his mind. The way he’d closed off, how easily he’d slipped away. Finally giving up at nearly three, Harry took a sip of Calming Draught and managed a few fitful hours before breaking his alarm when it had the nerve to wake him.

Mostly by accident.

By the time he got to Draco’s studio, he was questioning his decision to make the appointment and jittery with caffeine that had done nothing to alleviate his exhaustion. Draco’s greeting did nothing whatsoever to improve his mood.

“Don’t even think about touching me.”

Harry looked up, pausing in the act of taking off his shoes.“You’re all the way across the studio.”

“It was a preemptive warning,” Draco said, posed negligently with his arms crossed by the curtain that led to his living quarters. “Because you need to disrobe and I don’t particularly trust you not to take advantage.”

“That’s rather unfair, isn’t it?” Harry asked. He finished removing his shoes and socks, tucked them under his chair. “When I haven’t touched you in days. Ever since,” he added tightly, “you stopped wanting me to.”

Draco didn’t say anything. Harry scoffed under his breath and looked to the window, eyes picking out the dust motes caught in the morning sunlight. Suspended in place. Harry wondered how near to hopeless someone had to be to sympathise with a fucking dust mote. 

“And I’m not sure I’m in the mood to now,” he said, reaching for his shoes again.

“I don’t believe I ever indicated anything of the kind,” Draco said brusquely. “And you won’t be touching me; I’ll be touching you. Put your shoes down.”

“So you can refuse to kiss me hello?” 

“Is that why your mood is such shit?”

“I—” No. _Yes._ Disturbed, Harry focussed on his trainers in his lap. When had touching Draco become something that was less about exploring an attraction while on holiday and having a bit of fun than it was something he’d come to hope for, even expect, something he couldn’t sleep after not being able to do? When had it become about hello kisses? Harry felt himself flush. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Ah. You could have Owled.”

And there it was again, more a slither of a feeling than a thought: What if. What if he had, and Draco hadn’t written back? What if he was the only one who felt—

Harry shook his head to clear it, determined to avoid _that_ train of thought for as long as possible, and set his shoes back on the floor. “Anyway, I’m here now,” he said more harshly than he’d intended. He stood and walked to meet Draco, who stayed near the back wall. Stopping in the centre of the room, he gestured, feeling beyond silly. “Do we have to do one of those evaluations first?”

Draco hesitated, then eased closer. “I don’t generally need to do an evaluation when I know someone. Unless there’s something specific you’d like me to work on.” Correctly reading the look on Harry’s face, he added, “An emotional, mental, or magical problem you’re having.”

Harry snorted. “All of them?”

“Harry.”

“I don’t know, okay?” Harry sighed, watching as Draco approached with narrowed eyes. “Just tell me how this goes.”

Eyebrows shooting up behind his fringe, Draco stopped before him. A small frown pulled a notch high on the bridge of his nose. Harry balled his hands at his sides to avoid reaching for him; Draco was wearing his usual transparent set of work clothes but, Harry saw with tired amusement, had added a pair of pants under his trousers. They didn’t cover much, either.

“Anxiety,” Draco said after a moment, thoughtfully. “Stress. Expectation. And I think…” He mouthed something silently that Harry couldn’t make out and shook his head to himself, examining Harry’s face. Then he stiffened and drew himself up, and said, “Now don’t get carried away.”

“What?”

Draco kissed him, leaning in so fast it took Harry a second to realise what he’d meant— what was happening. It was… gentler than Harry knew Draco’s kisses could be, gentler than any of their previous, frantic necking, a candle where there’d only been firestorms. But his hands came up to frame Harry’s jaw, and his lips were soft and hot, slightly parted, and the kiss slipped through Harry like water; quenching. Like magic made of gold sparks. 

He put his hands to Draco’s waist, careful to keep the contact light lest Draco break the kiss, and kissed him back, his eyes suddenly aching. He kept them closed when Draco pulled away.

“Oh,” Harry breathed.

“Hello,” Draco said, backing off. Reserved. Harry opened his eyes and found him blushing, a combination of uncertainty and bravado on his face, as though the kiss had cost him something, or could. 

“Hi,” Harry said, heart turning lazy circles in his chest. 

“Better? More alert?”

Harry nodded dumbly. “Yeah, what—?”

Draco cleared his throat and gestured to the dressing screen in the corner. “A… sample. I wasn’t sure it would work,” he said, cheeks darkening further. “I’ve never tried… Anyway. Go ahead and disrobe. I took the liberty of selecting the oils before you arrived, but if you want something different, feel free to choose from what’s left. I’ll give you a moment.”

“You don’t have to go,” Harry started, but Draco was already walking away, disappearing behind his curtain. A moment later, the Obscurification spell came up, splitting the studio off from the entry, and Harry slipped behind the dressing screen to remove his clothes, studying the little shelf of essential oils, the rows of hooks on the wall for his clothing, the stacks of fluffy towels. Everything in perfect order. Like Draco, except when he wasn’t — when he let Harry see there was more to him.

Setting his glasses on an empty shelf and wrapping a towel around his waist, Harry came out. Draco was already waiting for him and, inexplicably nervous, Harry idled by the table. It suddenly seemed so much more significant, though why was beyond Harry; Draco did this to clients all the time. But that in addition to his own budding revelations changed the dimensions of what he’d thought, coming here, this would feel like. Skewed his perception. 

He took a breath. “Uh. Face down or…?”

Draco smirked. Quickly smothered it. He pushed his sleeves up to his elbows, flashing colour on the pale inside of his forearm as he indicated the table. “Yes, face down. To start. I may have you turn over, depending on how difficult it is to find the magical pressure points around your spine,” he said as Harry awkwardly climbed onto the table and stretched out on his stomach. It was startlingly comfortable, like sinking onto a featherbed. There was no hole to put his face into like on the table for the Muggle massage he’d got a few years back but, face turned to the side, he was was able to relax easily; he felt surrounded, cradled, the padding hugging him and pillowing his cheek. There was a brief wash of cool air over his arse as the towel was pulled off him, and then a sheet covered him to the small of his back. 

“You just did that to look at my arse,” he said, feeling loose but— oddly aware of his surroundings.

“Let’s not pretend I couldn’t have looked at your arse any time I wanted in the last week,” Draco murmured. He touched a point on the nape of Harry’s neck with one slick finger, the subtle aroma of lavender filling the air. “Harry.”

Harry blinked. He hadn’t realised he’d shut his eyes. “Yeah?”

“You realise this means I’ll have access to your magic.”

“I…” Harry twisted slightly to look at him. The muscles of Draco’s face had gone subtly tense, and the last of Harry’s jangling nerves quieted inside him. “Yeah. Ron said something about… Yeah. I know.”

Draco blew out a breath. “All right. I want you to talk about something mundane,” he said. He touched Harry’s back with two fingers at once, on either side of his spine. A fruity, floral scent. “The last thought that occured to you that felt… unimportant but curious.”

“Curious?”

“Mm hmm,” Draco said, low and reassuring. He walked his fingers down the length of Harry’s back. 

“Um. I wondered about your tattoo.”

Draco’s fingers paused, near the small of his back. “My tattoo?”

“You haven’t let me see it,” Harry said. “Not really.”

There was a moment of silence, and Harry started to lift his head, to look and gauge Draco’s face, but the implacable pressure of Draco’s palm between his shoulder blades stopped him. “I haven’t been hiding it,” he said, as Harry settled back down. “Exactly.”

“It’s Muggle, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Draco’s fingers found the same spot just below the small of Harry’s back. “I’ll show you later. Now I want you to recall the last time you felt a genuinely positive emotion.”

“And tell you?” Harry stifled a yawn.

“If you can.” Draco’s fingers moved, slower, travelling apart towards Harry’s sides. Harry’s mind immediately returned to a few minutes ago. Draco’s mouth on his, his hands holding Harry’s jaw.

“When you kissed me.” 

Another pause, longer. Draco said, “I don’t mean sexual arousal.”

“I don’t, either.” It was— tenderness, he saw now. The care Draco had kissed him with, the welcome, his touch on Harry’s face, all of it spooling together into something achingly soft inside Harry, an advancement from one thing to another. “It was a positive emotion.”

“Okay.” Draco replaced his fingers with the pads of his thumbs in the spot where he’d stopped; he applied pressure, and a spike of sensation went through Harry, zipping electricity to his cock and rattling in his bones. 

“Fuck.”

“Good or bad?”

“I’m not—” Harry breathed, trying to get his bearings. “Good. Yeah. Felt it in my cock.”

“Of course you would,” Draco muttered. But he sounded interested. Continuing to massage the spot on either side of Harry’s waist, he said, “Locating the magical nerves can be difficult; they’re less apparent when they’re not in use. But they’re connected with a witch or wizard’s emotions — it’s one of the reasons accidental magic in children is so common — so people experience the sensations differently when they’re stimulated. How and where you feel them can be a good indication whether there’s blocked flow. Most people sense it in their hands or wrists or arms, a tingle. I’m not surprised you had a… more extravagant response. Do you ever get hard when casting a spell?”

“Mm. Sometimes. When I’m not—”

“Thinking about it?”

“Yeah.” 

“It’s uncommon,” Draco said, “but not unheard of.” 

“What does it mean?” Harry asked, feeling drowsy. 

“Nothing in particular. That you’re responsive to physical touch, how intimate you find it. That it… that it means a great deal to you. That it can.”

“I wasn’t used to it,” Harry said, Draco’s languid, circular strokes soothing in the face of memories that normally left a sour taste in his throat. “Growing up, they didn’t— I don’t mind it in small doses, from people I don’t know, but it starts to…” Really, Harry thought he ought to just stop talking before he embarrassed himself, but Draco didn’t pause in his ministrations, and his silence had an expectant feel to it, so Harry gestured vaguely with his fingers, the most he could move. “It— It _crawls_ , when they crowd around me. Over my skin. But this is… really good.” 

The nature of Draco’s silence changed, and Harry ran his own last words over in his mind, the husky tone of them, but couldn’t really bring himself to care. 

“I could have told you that already, after having seen your reaction on the street a few nights ago,” Draco said. “I should have realised how much of your magic is connected to your pleasure centre. But I’m not finding any problems; if it’s been muffled, it’s only been marginally so.” His hands lifted off Harry, and there was a rustling sound, the small pop of something being uncorked. Citrus this time. Draco put his palms flat on each of Harry’s shoulder blades, slippery with oil. “You haven’t been sleeping well since you got that Owl from your boss.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, surprised. His voice sounded distant to his own ears. Draco’s palms were warm, firm and calloused and soothing, stroking small circles, and rather than experiencing the immediate tension he’d come to expect when thinking about work, Harry only felt calm, if a little more inclined to talk. “When I opened the letter— No. As soon as I saw the Ministry owl, I wanted to close my window.”

Draco’s hands came in, meeting over Harry’s spine, then sliding up. He worked them over the residual knots in Harry’s shoulders, and back in. “Is that something you need clarity on? Whether leaving the Ministry is something you’d like to do?”

“No,” Harry said instinctively. He tried to hold onto the answer, to follow it. “I just don’t want to feel sick about how I’m doing there anym— _oh._ ”

“Good or bad?” Draco asked, one fingertip resting in the hollow at the base of Harry’s skull. 

“ _Good_ ,” Harry mumbled. His mind was hovering in a half-dream state, Draco’s magic spilling through him. Draco stroked a circle in the spot and Harry became aware of a… a _pain_ there, or one that _had_ been there and was suddenly gone. It unlocked a series of small, flaring discomforts through his neck and shoulders, through his stomach, and vanished them as easily as blowing out a match. His cock jerked again, but it felt secondary to the surge of energy leaping in him. Harry gulped in a few ragged breaths. “It’s… yeah. Really good. Draco—”

“Shh.” Draco lifted his hands away. He moved around the table to Harry’s right and came down low, his breath tickling the back of Harry’s ear. “Let your mind drift. I’m going to untangle the shadow in your wandless; I think it’s connected directly to your magical core. It may feel strange at first, but it’s just my magic so try not to fight it. Understand?”

“Yeah.” Harry exhaled as Draco moved away, his lips first brushing against the hair at Harry’s temple. And then Draco’s fingers were dancing down Harry’s arm from his elbow, and when his fingertips reached the pulse point at Harry’s wrist, Harry couldn’t stop a moan from slipping free. Again, he felt it in his groin — but more powerfully in his chest, a loosening of something that had built over time and burrowed close to his heart; a sadness; a fear. Feeling neither of those things as much as the realisation of their former existence, Harry concentrated on the gleam of friction that sought them out, prickly and fascinating and hot: Draco.

“I can feel you,” Harry slurred. He heard a hum, a buzzing in his chest, and the twist of whatever was buried there being pulled free. With it came a gush of memories: successes that soon felt like mistakes based on the heavy pauses after he explained, the weighty frowns that were deliberately hidden — but not soon enough. But then there was that shimmer again, wrapping around the hole next to his heart, and Harry was able to breathe, to think, his mind in a freefall and Draco’s hands working magic over the tendons of his wrist. He drifted off, Draco’s huff of aroused laughter floating through his head, and Draco’s voice, annoyed and resigned and soft: “I knew I’d never make it another week, anyway.”

* * *

Harry opened his eyes.

He had the sense that time had passed; the shadows on the wall had shortened, and Draco was now sitting next to him, the ghost of a smile on his face as he looked at Harry. He raised an eyebrow: a question. Harry rolled to his side, met his eyes. Nodded without quite knowing why but needing to convey the resounding _yes_ clanging through his entire body. 

Draco’s smile grew. He looked wrung out, but… beautiful, almost ethereal, sat near the beams of sunlight coming in through the drifting curtains. 

Harry sat up and tucked the sheet around him. He let his legs dangle and yawned, the warm lethargy that had taken hold of him starting to fade. “That was… Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. How do you feel?”

“Good.” It was an understatement; Harry’s blood was practically singing through his veins, his body energised with a rush of chaotic feel-good endorphins. But there was no real way to express that without sounding like a wanker. “Good. Yeah. That was impressive.” 

Draco stood. “Such effusive praise — coming from The Boy Who learned to cast a glowing, horny deer at the ripe age of thirteen — will be held close to my heart for an eternity,” he said, rolling his eyes when Harry snorted. But his smile didn’t falter. He held out Harry’s wand, thumb stroking lightly over the wood. “Here.”

Rather than taking it, Harry caught Draco’s wrist and turned it over. Cradling the back of it in his palm, Harry took hold of the cuff of his shirt, that loose, drifty cotton, and glanced up at the slow tightening of Draco’s forearm; Draco met Harry’s eyes, but didn’t move away — permission held in the ether between them, and then granted by Draco’s tiny nod. Keeping his gaze locked on Draco’s, Harry eased the sleeve up one-handed, pushing the material bit by bit until it was bunched in the crook of his elbow. “Can I?”

“If you must,” Draco said, lips barely moving. 

Harry held his breath, pulled Draco’s arm closer to better inspect it without his glasses, and looked.

And looked.

And looked back up. “It’s. Uh.” 

He looked back down, as speechless as he’d ever been.

“I was drunk,” Draco said coolly. “A few years ago. I’d had trouble holding a Muggle job before I found etiquette lessons, and it suddenly seemed a rather brilliant plan to get a Muggle tattoo; cover the Mark, and make me more like a Muggle at the same time. Two birds, one curse. That was the first,” he said, tapping a rather ugly ladybird right over where the skull of his shrivelled Dark Mark would be. The colours were oversaturated, its black polka-dots bleeding into the red shell, and the shape was slightly odd, all of its beetle-legs sticking straight out from its body on each side. 

Draco tapped a small Top Cat tattooed over the curled tip of the Dark Mark’s tail. It was done in different shades of pink. Not simply his shirt, which Harry vaguely recalled was standard, but— entirely. The brightest pink Harry had ever seen. Draco said, “Cartoons were the first Muggle thing I actually enjoyed. I’m not sure why I decided to make him pink,” he mused, “but I’d been drinking then, too.”

“Oh.” 

“Yes, _oh,_ ” Draco said, the vaguest suggestion of a sneer in his voice. His finger traced a path where the body of the snake would be underneath the depiction of the roadrunner and Wile E. Coyote, mid-chase. “If you’ll notice, this one was done with more skill; by then I’d found a parlour with some decent artists working.”

“Right,” Harry said numbly. “It’s… yeah. More skilled.” And it was, the lines of the figures clean and strong, each of them in the colours matching what Harry’d seen in old cartoons on the telly, a cloud of dust poofing out between them. Harry blinked, searching for words. “Why, um—?”

“The rest, when I’d covered the Mark?” Draco said. Harry looked up and nodded, then back down. There were so many, as though Draco had aspirations for a full sleeve — but had stopped at the inside of his forearm, and only on the middle of it at that, all clustered tightly together in a boxy shape, and not one among them anything that seemed remotely significant at first or third glance. Harry felt more than saw Draco’s shrug. “I just… kept doing it for a few years. Before I realised I could do this for a living, that I’d need to start saving. I liked it. Some of my assignments covered room and board, so whenever I had an extra forty pounds, I’d get another.”

“Why a calculator?” Harry asked, squinting.

“I enjoy maths.”

“And the bandage tape?”

“I find Muggle Healing techniques interesting,” Draco said. He tried to pull his arm away, and Harry gripped it tighter, bowing over it.

“What does the street sign say?” Harry asked in fascination. “It’s half-covered by the snail.”

“Humps for ½ mile,” Draco said, then irritably snapped, “and the snail is _on_ the sign; I wouldn’t tattoo over one for another.”

“Right, because that would just be weird,” Harry said, snickering. As if the sound itself was a lock coming undone, he dissolved, no longer able to contain the bubble of stunned amusement that had been growing in his chest. Draco huffed and yanked his arm back, smoothing down his sleeve and shoving Harry’s wand at him. Harry gripped it, trying to gulp back helpless laughter as Draco folded his arms together and watched him impassively for a minute, then said, “If you’re quite finished—”

“There’s a, a, a lit _cigar_ ,” Harry gasped, tears starting to seep from his eyes, “and a cat wearing a baby’s nappy, why is it in a baby’s nappy, please, explain the nappy—”

“I will _not_ ,” Draco said over the sound of Harry’s hysterics. “You obviously—”

“Like you. I do, I _really do_ ,” Harry said, hiccuping, a flood of truth he couldn’t hold in anymore, like his laughter. Grinning, weightless with it, as euphoric as he’d been with Draco’s magic twirling around his. “I like you even more, oh god, Draco, what the hell goes _on_ in your head?” he asked, still giggling. Wiping his eyes, he glanced up — and stilled, the laughter dying in his throat. Draco was staring at him, cheeks a hot red, eyes wide and so shocked Harry’s heart stuttered. 

Draco swiped his fringe away from his face and cleared his throat. “As I was saying: If you’re quite finished,” he said, indicating towards Harry’s wand, “put up some stronger wards, and follow me.”

Thrown as much by the direction as the fact that Draco turned to walk away, Harry said, “Why don’t you—?” but broke off at the exceedingly patient look Draco gave him. He lingered by the curtain, waiting. Harry absentmindedly flicked his wand over his shoulder, and a shaky exhale burst from his lungs. He held his wand tighter, feeling the flutter of responsive magic skate up his arm, a like-new feeling akin to the one he’d felt when Ollivander first found it for him, when the wood seemed to glow against his skin. He cast another set of wards, just to see, and found it similarly powerful. “Jesus.”

“Might want to resist wandless for a day or two,” Draco said, smirking. He jerked his head to the curtain. “Come on.”

Harry slid off the table, gripping the sheet around his waist, and followed. Ducking between the drift of fabric, he came to a halt as his mind warped to adjust expectation to reality. The room, so possessively, privately guarded, didn’t expand out with wizarding space like Harry’d more than half-presumed, but was a tiny studio flat that was mostly filled by a large if otherwise unimpressive bed. Two long, narrow windows stretched across the far wall, each cracked open to allow for— air flow, perhaps, and each covered by herb boxes sprouting green things. Off to the left was a kitchenette; next to the bed, a shelf filled with books and a modest wardrobe, a years' worth of newspapers stacked to its side. Draco waited by a closed door through the kitchen, a sardonic quirk to his mouth. Harry padded over. 

“This is where you live.”

“Well spotted.” He gave Harry a thoughtful look. “Any more insightful observations you’d care to make?”

“I just meant—”

“Good.” Draco nudged the door with his heel, swinging it open. “The bathroom is better appointed.”

It was. Nearly the size of the kitchenette, the bathroom had a large, frosted window above the tub, and the more traditional separate shower stall Harry had foregone when looking for his own flat, but one big enough to fit two. The counter was long, neatly organised with medicinal potions, and topped by a rather ornate mirror that seemed out of place. Draco caught him looking at it, gave a clipped sigh, and said, “My mother claims I loved looking in it as a baby. It was my great-grandfather’s; he died before I was a year old and left it to me. Odd choice, perhaps, but it’s an heirloom, and it gives brilliant compliments. I inherited it after the Ministry cleaned out the Manor and our vaults. You’ll find a few things here and there.”

“I will?” Harry asked. 

“If you look.” Draco reached into the shower and turned it on. Then he tugged his shirt off over his head and dropped it onto the toilet lid. 

“Oh.” Harry looked at him. Swallowed. His body was slender, almost willowy, his small pink nipples beading tightly under Harry’s gaze. Harry’d seen him several times with an open shirt in the last week, but somehow the effect was different with Draco’s narrow, lean shoulders bare, with his Hippogriff scar exposed over the curve of his bicep to the edge of his collarbone.

Draco held himself taller for Harry’s inspection for a moment, a kindle of light growing in his silvery eyes. He stepped forward and deftly unknotted the sheet from around Harry’s waist, his hand reaching down familiarly to circle Harry’s cock and give it a slow pull. Another. Firming already, Harry’s erection grew fat and hard in Draco’s grasp; Harry dropped his wand and paused Draco’s strokes with a trembling hand.

“I’m—” If there was a way to finish the sentence, he didn’t know it; didn’t know anything other than that Draco was letting him in, and that Harry _wanted_ , a tumble of emotions knotting in his belly, so strong they rivalled terror. He shook his head and brought his hands to the ties at Draco’s waist, fumbling, wordless, and they came undone for him. Draco released Harry’s prick and brushed his hands away, and then divested of his bottoms and underwear on his own, leaving them in a pile next to Harry’s sheet. He was getting hard too, his cock hanging long and heavy over his balls and thickening as Harry watched it. He stepped in close to Harry, sliding an arm around his ribcage to pull their bodies together, his lips grazing Harry’s, then swivelled his hips; a slow grind of prick against prick. Against Harry’s mouth said, “Get in.”

“To _what_?” Harry asked, breathing with short, sharp pants. Draco gave him a shark-like smile and rolled against him again, smearing slick precome over Harry’s cock — though Harry’d be hard-pressed to figure out whose. 

Still grinning, Draco stepped back and — affording Harry a perfect visual of the arse he’d thought about far too much for the last few weeks — got into the shower, under the spray. He lifted a flannel from a hook, wet it, and casually began cleaning himself, scrubbing the pale swatches of hair under his arms, running the flannel over his chest. He turned to face Harry, tipping his head back and soaking it spring gold under the water, then dragged the flannel down to give his cock a thorough cleaning too, heavy-lidded gaze steady on Harry’s face.

Harry joined him in the shower.

“About time,” Draco said, snorting. Harry stole into his space, crowding Draco into the corner of the stall, breath held expectantly. Draco’s gaze flicked over his face, and he murmured, “You’re covered with oil.”

“Good for fucking,” Harry said with a short, snapping rut against Draco’s body, their cocks slipping wet together. 

“But not for my sheets,” Draco said, voice gratifyingly unsteady, “not the oil I use for sessions.” He slung his arm over Harry’s shoulder to reach for something and came back with a small bottle of soap, thumbing open the lid and squeezing out a healthy dose onto the flannel. “Turn around.”

Harry swallowed the growl teasing the back of his throat. “I want to fuck you.”

“Shocking,” Draco drawled. “Turn around. Put your hands against the tile.”

Narrowing his eyes, he did as Draco said, his back sliding against Draco’s damp chest as he lifted his hands head-level and pressed them flat. He felt Draco’s breathing hitch, resume, his erection like an iron bar digging high into Harry’s left arse cheek. Harry clenched his arse, darkly amused when Draco’s hand shot up to grip Harry’s arm, when he couldn’t stop himself from jerking with an instinctive fuck forward. 

Draco breathed out, inched his hips away. Removing his hand from Harry’s arm, he stepped to the side and began running the flannel against Harry’s nape. Quiet and conversational over the sound of the spray, he said, “I thought about you, you know, before Granger sent you here. Once or twice.” He made a critical sound when Harry turned to look at him, and Harry faced the wall again. Draco swept the flannel over his shoulders. “Do you know what will happen, if we fuck?”

“Based solely on my experience sucking your cock, I assume we’ll both come.” 

“And after that?”

“Probably again, fifteen minutes later.”

“People won’t like it,” Draco said flatly. 

“So Hermione mentioned,” Harry said. “There’s something we could do about that.”

“Keep me a secret.”

Ignoring the second warning noise Draco made, Harry twisted his head. “I meant we could choose not to care. But if you’ve got something to say, say it; don’t put me off by pretending you don’t want it.” 

The words came from that same shaky place inside Harry, the place swirling with a softness that almost hurt, and he said them with a confidence he hadn’t felt in years. Perhaps ever, not about something like this. He saw it as clearly as everything else now, his session with Draco bringing him a clarity he didn’t quite understand, but trusted; Draco had reasons for holding him off beyond the tease, the uncertainty of what they were. Even now. He just didn’t want to explain them.

“I’m not going to put you off,” Draco said, a host of unsaid things behind it. Harry wanted to ask, to press, but as the steam rose misty between them, Draco’s expression flickered, proud and vulnerable at once, and Harry found he couldn’t make himself say anything. Draco bit his lower lip, guiding Harry’s face away once more with one hand. He squeezed the flannel against Harry’s nape, a sluice of warm water and bubbles down to the crack of his arse, and put his mouth back to Harry’s ear. “I’m not going to hold myself back any longer, either.” 

“Prove it,” Harry said, a crack to his voice. Draco chuckled, a sinister sound that had Harry’s erection bobbing, the tip brushing warm, wet tile. Draco’s mouth moved from his ear, teeth scraping over the heated skin on Harry’s jaw, his neck, and then he found the spot again that he seemed to so favour, right at the bend of Harry’s neck and shoulder, that settled ripples of pleasure in Harry’s balls. He worked the spot with his teeth, his tongue, sucking on it hard and then biting down on it, stroking his flannel down, down, a rough, soapy caress to the small of Harry’s back. Harry let his head fall to the side, his hips canting backwards of their own accord to seek the pressure of Draco’s prick. 

“Is that a challenge, Potter?” Draco asked, lifting his head. Harry heard the wet slap of the flannel hit the floor, and Draco’s skinny body fit to the length of his, moving — too slowly; a taunt. Wet fingers slid through his hair, curled into it, and jerked. Harry exhaled, neck arched uncomfortably back, anticipation hot as fear lifting him onto the balls of his feet. Draco slid his other hand around Harry’s hip, his fingertips skating against the base of Harry’s cock on the way down, reaching; he cupped Harry’s balls firmly. “You’re that sure there’s nothing I might want to do that you’d object to?”

“Try me,” Harry said through his teeth, hoarse. Draco rolled Harry’s balls in his palm, tugged them hard, _harder_ , and a groan escaped Harry’s throat: “ _More._ ”

“Or maybe you just think I’ve changed?” Draco asked. His grip eased, the pads of his fingers stroking the soft inside of Harry’s thigh. “After all, you _like_ me, don’t you?”

“You’re—” Harry shuddered as Draco slithered one long finger between his legs, under his testicles, and curled it up; a steady, rubbing increase of pressure to Harry’s perineum. “—still a fucking Slytherin. But yes,” he said, answering both questions at once, “I do.”

Draco huffed a laugh against Harry’s jaw, warm and damp as the water, a surprised sound, sweet and just as dizzying as what he was doing with his finger. The fingers in Harry’s hair loosened, petted it back. “My god, Potter,” he said with another laugh, and rested his forehead to Harry’s nape. Dripping strands of Draco’s hair sticking soft to Harry’s skin, he shook his head. “My god.”

Then he pressed a kiss to Harry’s shoulder, both of his hands sliding to Harry’s buttocks. He edged his thumbs into the crease, and — and knelt _down._

“Wh—” Harry started to turn, but Draco was already spreading him open. Pushing his face in. Lapping along the crevice of Harry’s arse with long, unadorned stripes, practically dismissive but for the vibration of his purr against Harry and the savage skill he used to dart the tip of his tongue into Harry’s hole with each pass. Harry’s ankles twisted with the eager attempt to widen his stance; his head fell forward with a _thunk_ to the tile. He reached back to touch Draco’s head, to hold onto _his_ hair, hips bucking as he gracelessly rode Draco’s face. “Oh f-f— _Unnhh_ , fuck, _fuck._ ”

Draco made a sound of approval against him, shaking his head in Harry’s grasp for a better fit, and concentrated the massage of his tongue on Harry’s rim, swirling sloppy licks over the sensitive nerves clustered there. Harry fought to keep his balance, overheated by more than the water and the steam, and almost lost the battle when Draco latched his lips against Harry’s arsehole and sucked. But Draco’s hands came to lock with deceptive strength around the fronts of Harry’s weakened knees, and Harry somehow stayed upright, his cock bouncing high with pulses of sensation that drooled precome from the tip. His head swam, his tongue felt thick; his preferences what they were, he could count the number of times someone had performed the favour for him on one hand. And none of them had been executed with such devastating precision, such focus, Draco’s tongue thrusting between the soft scrape of his teeth between sucks to press into Harry, and then deeper, warm, hungry sounds accompanying the splatter of water over them. 

Harry released Draco’s hair to ring his fingers around the base of his cock — even that tight, stemming squeeze nearly too much — and gave a strangled wheeze trying to pull in enough oxygen, then said, “ _Please, Draco, please_ ,” not knowing if he was begging to be fucked or simply to be put out of his torment. Draco made the decision for him with a curl of his tongue into Harry’s rim and a final, obscenely slurping suck as he pulled off. He tilted his head, nipped the crease where Harry’s buttock met his thigh, and stood, plastering himself to Harry’s back. Lips on the curls at the base of Harry’s hairline, he inched his hips away and reached between them with a small grunt, pressing his cock between Harry’s arse cheeks. 

“Still want to fuck me?” he said, breathless. His lips were hot from working Harry loose, slick with saliva, and the knowledge of that spilled untempered through Harry, even more arousing than what Draco’d been doing. Harry whined, not sure he could make himself choose, if he was being given a choice between being filled or tending to his own cock the way his body was begging, no clear answer to give — and then not even sure it mattered, because Draco didn’t seem inclined to wait for one; he rolled his hips, cock between Harry’s buttocks, his shaft rubbing over Harry’s hole. His breath gusted against Harry’s neck, a sharp pant. 

The water spraying between them washed away the slick of Draco’s spit, giving a textured sensation to each slow stroke. Shaking, Harry reached back to position him, to take him in, but Draco abruptly shifted, his cock bouncing away. Draco gave a strained laugh, repositioned, his prick pressed between Harry’s cheeks, and started thrusting again— only a bit, only that same small amount, Harry’s arse clenching each time he felt it rub against his rim. He held himself there, breathing hard, his fingers a vice on Harry’s ribs, his words like a foreign language in Harry’s head — _“I think I asked you a question.” —_ before Harry understood. Draco rocked against him pointedly, a little harder, back again, another shift of his hips to slide his cock up toward the small of Harry’s back, and Harry twisted to dislodge him, a snarl falling from his lips. He caught Draco around the waist and spun them, pushing Draco’s shoulders to the tile, and ravaged his mouth with a kiss.

“ _Bastard,_ ” he said, jerking away when Draco bit too hard at his lip. But Draco’s eyes were alight, excited, desire open on his face, his cock swollen and stiff between them. Harry kissed him again, crushed their bodies together, and said, “ _Yes, I want to fuck you_.”

“Good,” Draco croaked, pupils shot. His parted lips were bracketed by the barest creases of a smile. “I want you to. Take me to bed.”

Their mouths met again, Draco’s palm curling tight around the back of Harry’s neck. Harry felt it like an anchor, Draco's hand possessive and commanding on him: _No, don't stop kissing me. No, I won't let you get away,_ Harry's eyes grew tender with a flood of unshed moisture, his grip tightened painfully on Draco's body. Harry elbowed the shower door open, sucked on Draco’s tongue in his mouth, and stumble-slipped them out of the shower. Draco came with him, not content to let himself be pulled, his hands mapping hard trails on Harry’s body, his short, blunt fingernails scoring over Harry’s skin — a fight that set Harry’s blood boiling, exactly what he hadn’t known he wanted. Growling with impatience, Harry lifted him, staggered them over to the counter. He dumped Draco onto it, ignoring Draco’s startled yelp, and held out a hand to the open doorway. “ _Accio_ lube, goddammit.” 

Brutally fast, a tube smacked into his hand. Draco scrambled to adjust his position, eyes wide and chest heaving, hair dripping water against the reflection of the back of his head as he pulled his knees up to prop his heels on the edge of the counter, thighs wantonly spread. His cock was curved hard against his rippling stomach, a heavy lean toward the jut of his hip, and Harry stared at it for a moment before dropping his gaze down over Draco’s neat, tightening balls to his exposed arsehole: pink, tight, furled. Pretty. Hands shaking with want, Harry thumbed open the lid of the tube; he squeezed a generous amount over two fingers. Hesitated. Looking up to Draco’s face, he stroked the lube on his fingers over his own cock.

Then he lined up, and pushed in. 

“ _Yes,_ ” Draco hissed, even as his body seized to refuse Harry’s entrance. Harry reached down and cupped Draco’s arse, spreading his cheeks further apart. He pushed harder, a groan tearing out of him when he forced his way past the stubborn muscles of Draco’s sphincter— felt Draco pushing against him, determined to soften his own involuntary resistance. And then it worked, and Harry sank in with a stifled sound, pleasure washing over him, one long hard stroke lodging him as deep as he could go. Draco flattened his hands on the countertop, back arching, and said it again: “Yes.” And more, when Harry caught his breath enough to look up from where they were joined: “God. Harry. Do it. Fuck me. Fuck me. _Fuck me._ ” Harry was barely aware of obeying, the pleasure already spiralling uncontrolled to coil in the base of his spine and shiver tension in his thighs, his balls, and his cock, slippery and constricted, deep in Draco’s arse. He reared back and slammed back in with each of Draco’s rough, needy pleas, hips snapping a frantic beat, the potion bottles rattling on the counter, Draco’s shoulders squeaking and smearing wet streaks against the mirror, which chirped, “Well done, Draco, your friend looks so engaged, what a charming boy you are!” 

It didn’t, shockingly enough, put either of them off their stroke. Harry choked a breathless laugh, and Draco shot him a mischievous grin, his brow still tight with building pleasure, his hips still rising to meet the thrusts of Harry's cock. All of it married perfectly inside of Harry: the violence between them, the play, the affection Harry could no longer pretend he didn’t feel, especially to himself. And none of it was something he had to resign himself to, or figure out, or fit together — it was uncomplicated simply because he _wanted it to be_ , because they both did. Because they could fuck like they were about to die from desire and spare a smile for each other while doing it, because it mattered to Draco that Harry knew he’d always be a Malfoy, and it mattered to Harry that he wanted Harry to know.

Harry felt helpless with it, the room spinning about them. He fucked into Draco faster, sweat chilling his temples even as his hair dried, and hunched in to kiss him, whispering, “Come to— the gala— with me,” punctuating the order with three hard pumps that made him squeeze his eyes shut for fear of coming, and slid Draco’s arse back. Harry yanked him up to the lip of the counter again, Draco’s thighs tensing as he lifted his hips to meet Harry’s thrusts, his eyelashes fluttering when Harry straightened.

Draco gasped, “Make me— Uhhh, _come_ , Harry,” curling his fingers around his cock and starting to pull. “I’m so fucking close, _nngghh_ , fuck you, right there, _right fucking there don’t stop_ , oh _god._ ” 

Shuddering, Harry tried to hold off the tide of his oncoming climax, grinding his pelvis against Draco’s arse with tiny, hard ruts of his hips to hit Draco’s prostate at the angle he wanted, hypnotised by the sight of Draco’s hand working swift over his prick — but it was no use. It crashed over him, inevitable, Draco’s skilled inner muscles rippling around him even before Draco’s own orgasm began, a pulse of sensation spasming around Harry’s cock. He started coming with a wordless cry, jerking himself out to watch himself spill over Draco’s hole, inarticulate with the need to mark him in some way, and then shoved back in to flood Draco’s arse with spunk, to ride out the waves of his orgasm; flawless; consuming. 

And Draco’s head banged back against the mirror, one of his long legs curling to hold Harry about the waist, muttering, “Don’tstopdon’tstopdon’tstop,” as he came too, his cheeks copper with exertion. He lifted up against Harry and stroked his cock in a tight hand, come shooting over his fingers and belly, the flex of him around Harry better than anything he’d ever felt, and then he slumped back with a deep exhale, muscle tension vanishing but for a tiny aftershock that rippled through him all the way to Harry’s spine. 

Harry breathed in hard gasps, his thighs aching, sweat gathered on the small of his back. His eyes had fallen shut and he opened them with some effort, words he’d never said to a partner on the tip of his tongue. But Draco was looking up at him, eyes bright but shuttered, something indecipherable shifting over his features when Harry cupped his jaw in one hand — and that jaw, tightening minutely against Harry’s palm, telling Harry something different even as Draco smiled at him wearily and let his leg fall. Harry exhaled and pulled out carefully, then leaned over him. Stroked the corner of Draco’s mouth with his thumb.

“Which of us,” he asked, smiling, “is supposed to be the filthy little slut, again?”

The tension against Harry’s palm eased. Draco’s eyes gleamed at him, tired with satisfaction. Harry kissed him without closing his own, floating. Suspended. Happy about it. 

“You, of course,” Draco said. Harry scoffed and Draco raised an eyebrow. Smirked and lifted his mouth for another kiss. “But you can try to prove me wrong in fifteen minutes.”

* * *

“Oughtn’t you be going?” Draco asked quietly.

It was two a.m. But the length of Draco’s side was warm against Harry’s front, both of them nude, pressed flush, and Harry wasn’t particularly inclined to answer. He kissed the knob of Draco’s shoulder and lifted his arm from where it was lying across his stomach. 

“The pineapple?” he asked.

Draco smiled in a soft, helpless way that made Harry’s heart flip over. “Genevieve,” he murmured. “She was seven. Behavioral problems, she refused to listen to her mum, got into tempers at the dinner table. It was mostly boredom; she was happier after I got her involved in a creative playgroup. I worked for her family, stayed with them for six months. She was fascinated by the tattoos, so I made it an incentive: if she applied herself to my lessons, she could pick one for me when my contract was up. She liked pineapples.”

As it turned out, however mundane or silly the tattoo was, none of them were random like Harry'd thought. Some of the reasons behind them were obvious — a tiny Slytherin snake drawn into the veins of a Hawthorn leaf; a dainty, white Narcissus flower tucked behind the ear of a hare (which, Draco told him softly, was his mother’s Patronus) — and others required explanations, but they each made perfect sense to him, if not Harry. They each meant something; a memory, if nothing else, and Harry wanted to understand them all.

Harry ran the pad of his index finger over three horizontal stripes in yellow, green and red. “Your favourite colours?”

“My favourite colour is a prettier green,” Draco said automatically, turning to look at him. Then he blushed and bit his lip, lifting his head to the ceiling once more — a charming tell that made Harry’s heart pound. “It’s the Lithuanian flag.”

“Mm. Why Lithuania?” Harry said, releasing Draco’s arm to slide his fingers up to his nipple. He toyed with it, watching it tighten.

Draco’s breath stuttered. “It’s the only country in the world with its own official scent.”

“Ah.” Harry leaned in to drag his teeth along the elegant line of Draco’s neck. “Have you been there? Do you want to go?”

“Merlin no.” Draco rolled to his side. He slipped his hand along Harry’s flank, gaze warm and sleepy-soft. “Am I to understand, then, that you’re _not_ going home?”

“Are you kicking me out?” Harry asked. He shifted closer, rubbed his plumping cock against the soft curls at Draco’s groin. _I don’t want to leave,_ he tried to say with his eyes. 

Draco ran his tongue over his teeth, eyes searching Harry’s face. His fingers, having reached the back of Harry’s neck, curled into the strands of Harry’s hair. “We have to sleep sometime,” he said, though they had — several times, little cat naps taken curled around each other before waking to fuck some more. Sex drunk, delirious. Harry was about to point that out, but then, with a touch of regret, Draco said, “And— I’m getting rather sore.”

“Me too,” Harry said, cock hardening further, inexplicably turned on by the thought. Healing Spells were only effective for so long until you started to abuse them. Stupid, to want someone so much. It made Harry feel like a walking bruise. Even brushing his cock against Draco’s curls was overwhelming; he felt like he’d had Draco a dozen times since the first, had taken him apart with his hands and mouth and cock, and like he could have him a dozen more and not grow tired of it. He slipped a hand between Draco’s thighs, easing his fingers into the crevice of his arse. Draco’s rim was swollen, a bit loose, and hot against his fingers, still slick from their most recent session. Harry kept his touch light, unobtrusive, against the delicate, twitching crinkles. “I’m not even sure I can come again,” he said honestly.

“You certainly seem willing to try,” Draco said, lips pulling up into a sardonic smile. But he rocked his hips against Harry’s gentle probing, his eyes fluttering shut— his cock filling out against Harry, little by little. Harry tilted his chin to reach Draco’s ear.

“I want to try everything,” he whispered into it. “Anything you want.”

Breath coming faster, Draco pulled back to study Harry’s face, the remnants of his drowse receding. Voice husky, he said, “Get on your stomach.”

Harry bit his lip against the groan wanting to come out, but it won — a small sound of needy arousal. Twice during the day, he’d offered, and had either been turned down or had forgotten during foreplay, but— he hadn’t been lying: he wanted to try everything with Draco. Harry moved onto his stomach, body loose, anticipation turning each puff of his breath ragged. 

It was slow this time, like the last few. Draco straddled the backs of Harry’s thighs, rubbing his cock against Harry’s arse as he opened him up with two careful, twisting fingers, then three. Rolling harder against Harry when Harry started to squirm. Murmuring, lovely things he’d probably never say if they were face-to-face: _If you could only see yourself_ , and _Do you know how much I want to fuck you?_ and _Your back is a work of art, your arse, those eyes, no wonder everyone wants to touch you_ , running his free hand over the muscles shifting at Harry’s shoulders. He removed his fingers and stretched out atop Harry, parting his legs with one knee to settle between them, then breached him a bit at a time, still whispering praise into Harry’s ear, Harry’s arse burning to admit his cock, stretching around it, filled with it. 

When he was inside, he paused, and Harry twisted his head to meet Draco’s mouth in a kiss: long; unhurried; hot. Then Draco rose behind him, pulling Harry’s hips up to meet his pelvis, and fucked him, his cock gliding in and out so easy and sweet Harry could only grip the sheets under him and choke out moans of approval into the mattress. Taking Harry apart, just as he’d said he would. 

Harry came, untouched and overstimulated, Draco pumping into him and holding on, his breath hot against Harry’s back, his groan of pleasure a bolt to Harry's heart. 

Afterwards, Draco held him, his chest warming Harry's back. Harry said, "I go back to work on Monday. Let me stay tonight." 

Draco inhaled, arms tightening. "Okay," he said. "Okay."


	8. Chapter 8

_Harry,_

_No, I will not have lunch with you. While I’m flattered that sex with me has melted your nine remaining brain cells, I did not spend three weeks working so hard just to have you skive off as soon as you returned to work. Think of your promotion._

_Besides, I have clients booked all day._

_Draco_

_Draco,_

_Is that what we’re calling it now? “Working hard”? Because I mostly remember you sitting on my face. (Which, in case you didn’t know, was what I meant by my invitation to “lunch.”)_

_Harry_

_Harry,_

_The owl who delivered your “invitation” knew what you meant. If that’s your version of subtlety, I know what I’ll be working on the next time you need a session. Still, I harbour hope that the first proves beneficial to you at work, despite the fact that you seem to have the attention span of a child._

_I’ll see you on Wednesday night as planned — now go be persistant about work in the meantime._

_Draco_

_Draco,_

_She’s a Ministry owl, she knows better than to judge me with the sort of mail she must have to deliver. You, on the other hand…_

_My persistence has won a war, so it must be at least a little charming. And on that note: What about dinner tonight? I might even feed you food before I take you home._

_Don’t be jealous because I have the ability to focus on multiple things at a time. Work is good, just busy. But my energy levels are up (obviously), and I’m not finding any problems with my fo—_

* * *

Harry huffed a laugh and set down his quill, knuckles smarting. “Okay, sorry.” He reached into the drawer of his desk and pulled out a breaded grasshopper, and fed it to the owl with the hand she hadn’t nipped. Spent a few precious seconds stroking the feathers she ruffled — either with impatience or gratitude — as she crunched on the treat.

“End-of-holiday blues are normal,” Robards said from the doorway. He flapped away Harry’s startle as he strolled in. His gaze followed the owl winging her way out of Harry’s open door and then turned to Harry when he sighed. Harry flicked his wand at the Owl Call charm on his wall to summon another — it’d be at least five minutes before one arrived. Robards smiled. “I hope I didn’t give you too much for your first day back?”

Harry hesitated. He had, as a matter of fact. Upon arriving to his office, Harry’d been dismayed to see that the persistent stack of files he’d gotten used to having piled on his desk had only grown in his absence. His own damned fault, he supposed, for never pointing out he was one man rather than three. For never wanting to disappoint. “Actually, Sir—”

Robards paused, grey eyebrows rising fractionally, in the act of lowering himself into one of the visitor’s chairs. He cleared his throat and sat. “Yes?” he asked. 

He had a way of speaking when he was invested, a gravity not unlike Mad Eye’s. He paid attention. He was committed, and he cared. It was what made him a good mentor, and what made Harry so determined to do him proud; he was trustworthy, paternal, and Harry had always taken heart from that.

Banishing the shiver at the back of his neck, Harry said, “It’s just not— realistic. All of this,” he gestured to the files waiting, “for just one Auror.”

“Well, you left quite a backlog,” Robards said. His moustache quivered slightly, too bushy to reveal the full depth of his frown. But it was an expression Harry was familiar with, regardless: worry. “And then of course there were new cases. There are a lot of people waiting for news, for justice, and we’re so understaffed. But I didn’t mean to overwhelm you, Harry. You take too much on. It’s a bad habit, that.” He pulled his wand and gave a graceful swish, separating the files into smaller, neat stacks. “There. You needn’t accomplish everything in one day, son. Some of those are cold cases, remember. Put your first efforts to the most urgent of them.”

“Right,” Harry said, taking a breath. Three of the six stacks glowed critical green, and another two shimmered priority blue, on the cusp of a shift. A wriggle of guilt worked its way up his spine.

“And of course, if you need, I can find a way to take on your surplus, move some of my own cases around — between us,” Robards said with a reassuring nod. But his moustache shifted again for a beat. “The Wizengamot won’t ever hear that— Well.”

Harry seized the opportunity to look away from the bright colours; the first warning of a headache flickered at the base of his skull. “I meant to talk to you about that, sir. How the audit went, if you’ve heard anything promising about my advancement.”

There was a noise like a lock snicking shut. The snap of Robards’ teeth, maybe, or the furtive click of his tongue. Harry tensed, just slightly. Robards said, “The audit went fine, they had no problems accessing your files…” 

_But._ It was there, unspoken. A regret that Robards had to brace himself to voice. An apology. 

A month ago, Harry would have felt it like an ache in his joints, a healed bone break in cold weather that left someone scrambling to find warm shelter. But now, it didn’t have the same impact. Harry took the hit stoically, a brief, piercing disappointment; whatever the ‘but’ was about didn’t necessarily mean all hope was lost. He made a mental note to add it to his Owl to Draco, and nodded his encouragement. “What is it?”

Something complex passed over Robards’ face, his faded blue eyes flashing up to meet Harry’s. “There was some concern regarding the shops you’ve been patronising, and the,” he grimaced, steepling his fingers together, “company you’ve been keeping.”

 _That_ made Harry react before he could control himself. He almost wished he could pretend that the objection made had been about the nature of Blaise’s shop, or the aging Wizengamot’s discomfort with his sexual preferences — but no. “You mean Draco,” Harry said, pleased when his voice came out steady.

“I mean Death Eaters,” Robards said bluntly. “Death Eater sympathisers.” He shook his head, an air of sad disapproval about him. “Really, Harry, what were you thinking?”

Robards’ tone cut straight to Harry’s core. He’d never kept secret his feelings on the subject, campaigning hard against the more lenient members of the Ministry and public for longer sentences, and exile for convicted Death Eaters who ever made it out of Azkaban. For harsher punishments against those who had been complicit in support of Voldemort in thought and word if not deed, but whose involvement existed peripherally. Harry understood that. Agreed in many cases. His determination to speak out for Draco, for the people he thought might have a chance to learn and reform — especially when he’d seen the stirrings of evidence that their attitudes might already be shifting during the war — had been one of the only bones of contention between him and Robards, early in his career. Abruptly, Harry recalled the disgust with which Robards used to speak about people like Hermione, who rallied for house arrest and mandatory rehabilitation studies for people like Draco, which had caused more than one row between them until the trials were over and nothing more could be done. Disturbed, Harry realised he’d completely forgotten about that, the increasing pressures of his chosen field leaving him no time or space to do anything but put himself in Robards’ capable hands, to be shaped into the Auror they both knew he could be.

“Is that criticism coming from them,” he asked slowly, “or you?”

Robards flushed. Stiffly, he said, “I don’t appreciate that, son.”

Harry worried his lip between his teeth, staring at him. The urge to apologise was strong.

“I know.” Harry hesitated, choosing his words with care. “But— you always said my private life was my own. When the Wizengamot expressed their disapproval to you over my preferences.”

“Being a—” Robards cut himself off with a strained laugh. “I’m afraid it’s not the same. Choosing to link yourself to power hungry blood purists who throw their wealth around to get their own way no matter who suffers is much different to— to—”

“Fucking men?” Harry suggested, trying to ignore the internal flinch instigated by his fluster. He’d seemed so much more blasé about it when Harry’d first come out. “Well, I didn’t choose to link myself to someone like that,” he said, getting back to it and returning Robards’ relieved smile. “I chose to link myself to Draco.”

“They don’t like it,” Robards said, the curve to his moustache disappearing. “It looks bad for the Ministry; it will ruin your chances of getting my spot. And since I refuse to retire until someone I trust is locked in, that means another five years for me. It’s a choice that’ll end badly, son.”

“So people keep telling me,” Harry said. A skitter of unease brought goosebumps to his arms; he valued Robards’ opinion — he, like Hermione, was seldom wrong. Even looking at the last few weeks, and being with Draco, through that lens, had the potential to change his perspective. 

Draco had let him stay the entire weekend, and they’d argued nearly the whole time. Harry felt like he ought to have known that would happen — there would always be friction between them, no matter the chemistry they shared. Draco preferred his eggs runny and Harry liked his more cooked (“It’s a waste of eggs to remake them runny for me, Potter!”); Harry wanted to go flying together and Draco refused (“If you insist on faffing about underfoot, I’m going to at least keep you hidden for as long as possible!”); Draco got uproariously angry when Harry tried to open his bedside drawer in search for more lube (“This is _my_ fucking home, do you see me going through _your_ things with a total disregard for your privacy? Shut up!”); and he wouldn’t commit in any way to being Harry’s plus-one at the gala, no matter how many times Harry brought it up (“Stop whinging about it and put your mouth to good use— _ahh, fuck!_ ”). 

But… Draco had let him stay the weekend. 

The result of it all was that the second batch of eggs went unmade, and they didn’t leave the modest rooms Draco had turned into a cosy home. Harry stayed away from Draco’s bedside drawer, and Draco took to sitting on his face whenever Harry mentioned the gala, so Harry mentioned it often. A compromise. Harry puttered around peacefully and read Draco’s books when Draco had a customer, and when he didn’t they found ways to keep themselves occupied. During the lulls between fighting and fucking, they learned more about each other, their conversations hushed and broken by kisses.

The result of it all was an apology, softly spoken into Harry’s ear when Draco thought he was asleep. 

And Harry thought just that would have been enough — the feeling he’d tucked away somewhere quiet next to his heart — to take a risk or two for.

“I guess…” Harry sighed and tweaked his glasses out of their tilt. “I guess I’ll figure that out if I have to. There are ways around getting their approval,” he said with resolve he hadn’t known he felt until the words were spoken. He laughed a little, incredulous, then looked down at his desk and collected a few of the files from each stack. “And yes, I’d appreciate it if you could reassign these. I’ve got used to sleeping more than two hours a night while on holiday, and think I’d like to keep that up.” He tipped Robards a crooked smile and held them out.

Robards stretched his arm to take them with a blink. He rose from his chair and opened his mouth, but was interrupted by the flap of rustling feathers as a new owl flew in Harry’s door. 

Harry pulled another breaded grasshopper from his desk and fed it. “Just one minute.” He gave his attention to Robards. “Was there something else?”

“No, but—” Robards studied him, expression caught somewhere between a smile and a frown. Mystified. “You seem different,” he said at last, with an incredulous laugh of his own. His moustache curved, and the disquiet plaguing Harry finally abated. Robards lifted one shoulder, smiled. “Assured. It’s a good characteristic for a Head Auror to have.”

“Thanks.”

Robards nodded, then pointed at what was left of the glowing green stack on Harry’s desk. “Take care of those today, reports included. As soon as you’re done with your—” he glanced at the owl and raised his eyebrows, “—personal correspondence.”

“Yes, sir.” Harry’s cheeks heated. “I will.”

“And… Schedule me for a meeting on Friday,” Robards said thoughtfully. “Two to four. We’ll discuss those ways of circumventing the Wizengamot you mentioned over the new bottle of Gedric Warrington Black I’ve recently acquired.”

“Consider it done.” Harry watched him go, a burst of warmth thrumming inside him, then picked up his quill and dashed off, _—cus or anything. In fact, I was just able to prioritise my own life and decline an excess of assignments with Robards, absolute progress to which I’ve got to credit your revitalisation. Thanks. There must be a way I can repay you… Harry_. He folded it in thirds and sealed it, then handed it over to the owl with a gentle stroke of its feathers. “61B Diagon Alley South. Draco Malfoy, all right?”

The owl regarded him with somber yellow eyes, Harry’s missive clutched tight in its beak as it took off soundlessly — only giving a belated, garbled, confirmation hoot once it was out Harry’s door. 

Harry chuckled and reached for the first file — a wizarding home in Devon had been burgled, the family’s guard crup and eight year old daughter hexed into a sleep Healers were having trouble bringing them out of. The remnants of his smile died. Even refusing a portion of his assignments, he’d be lucky to be spared enough time to meet Draco for dinner. Or anything else. 

But he could potentially fix this, and other atrocities like it — and, in between, perhaps find a moment to exchange an Owl or two.

* * *

_Draco,_

_I never heard back from you, so I assume it’s a good thing I was too busy for dinner. Don’t concern yourself, I only saved the life of a young girl and her crup after they walked in on her dastardly uncle trying to break the wards on his brother’s home vault, this morning — and then spent the afternoon sifting through Curse shadows to piece together an explosion that had nearly destroyed another family’s home. (Their two-year-old was having a tantrum and isn’t a Squib after all, it seems. If you were wondering.) No applause necessary. Really, I’m just a normal wizard like anyone else. A normal, famous, noble, exceedingly powerful wizard with brilliant investigative prowess and a “deliciously well-shaped cock” (to use a phrase I recently heard). Pay no regard to me._

_I’ve got to get some rest. Owl me if you like; otherwise, I’ll write tomorrow._

_I thought about you today._

_Harry_

*

_Draco,_

_Might be able to get away for lunch today. Let me know if you’re free around two._

_Harry_

_Draco,_

_Sorry I didn’t hear from you. I’m going to stubbornly believe you’re busy, and that my persistence can’t really be that annoying. I’ll be leaving work around eight if nothing comes up. Let me know if I can stop by — otherwise, I’ll see you tomorrow night._

_Harry_

*

_Potter,_

_I must extend my apologies. That I somehow gave you the impression there was something greater between us than could be found between my sheets was deplorable of me. Or incredibly amusing, depending on how you view the situation. (And if you have my sense of humour.)_

_Having said that, I’m afraid I’ll need to request you cease all contact with me. I wish the very best of luck to you in your future endeavours, and to the entirety of wizarding England if you actually manage to accomplish them._

_D.L.M._

_Draco,_

_I don’t understand the joke. Owl me._

_Harry_

_Draco,_

_WHAT THE FUCK, YOU COMPLETE ARSEHOLE. Your studio is temporarily closed??? Where have you gone? Are you okay? This isn’t funny. _

_Harry_

_Blaise,_

_Have you or Greg heard from Draco? He’s closed his shop and I’m concerned. Please Owl or Floo as soon as you get this._

_Thanks,  
Harry_

_Harry,_

_Sorry, I can’t help. And neither of us knows where he’s gone._

_Blaise_

* * *

“He’s an arsehole,” Ron said. “I mean, I wish I could feel more cheerful about saying ‘I told you so’, but honestly, Harry. What’d you expect?”

Harry took back Draco’s letter, fingers rasping over the worn creases in the parchment as he finished off the bottle of beer Ron had given him. “A few weeks ago? Something like this, maybe. And I wouldn’t have much cared. But now?” He shook his head, halting in his tracks before he wore a groove in the floor. “You’re the one who pointed out that Hermione’s always got a reason for doing what she does.”

“Doesn’t mean he’s not an arsehole,” Ron pointed out, “just that he’s—”

“He’s not the sort of arsehole he used to be,” Harry said.

Ron contemplated him, orange brows drawing together. He sat down in a side chair and glanced around the library for a footstool. Not finding one, he tossed a sofa pillow to the floor and swiftly Transfigured it with a flick of his wand, then stretched out to prop his feet up. “All right,” he said seriously. “What do you think’s happened?”

“I don’t know,” Harry said. He twitched his fingers, Vanishing the bottle in his grip. “All I know is that Draco wrote me a letter — his magic is all over it — that… he wouldn’t have written. Seriously, how many books does Hermione _have_? Have you noticed her looking in a particular section when she’s working on a case she won’t talk to you about?”

“She can’t talk to me about most of them,” Ron said, a wry cast to his face. He sighed and gestured to the far wall. “Maybe try over there.”

Harry headed to the shelf, so tightly packed, Hermione probably needed a charm to pull one down without starting an avalanche of the whole row. “I broke the wards on Draco’s studio,” he said, scanning the spines. They were all organised by either number or symbol, no help at all. “He really wasn’t there, and it was obvious he’d left in a hurry. None of these make sense!”

“Not to you,” Hermione said with censure. Harry whirled, reached her in three long strides. He scooped her up as she came into the room, a dizzying wave of relief washing over him. Hermione returned the hug tentatively, then tighter, patting his back with a soothing flutter of her hand. “Harry? What are you doing here so late? Are you okay? What’s going on?”

Harry tried to answer but couldn’t; his tongue was too thick, his heart pounding too hard. He heard Ron say, “Malfoy dropped him, was a total dick about it. But Harry’s suddenly convinced that’s out of character.”

“I didn’t say that,” Harry said, finding his voice. He pushed Draco’s letter at Hermione. “But this is. I really think it is.” Stomach churning, Harry watched the colour bleed from her face as she read it. “I’m right, aren’t I? Something’s _wrong._ ”

“I—” Hermione looked up at him, lips tightening, then huffed a breath through her nose and glanced at Ron. “I don’t know. No,” she said, holding up a hand when Harry started to argue, “I really don’t. But I think…”

 

“What?” Harry asked.

“I can’t _say_ ,” she told him. She balled her hands, and when she tilted her face up again to meet his eyes, her forehead was creased with what looked like pain. “I really _can’t_ , Harry. I can’t even— frame my thoughts in a way— that—”

“Hermione?” Ron stood, exchanging a glance with Harry when she gave a frustrated little cry and, panicked, Harry saw that her hairline was dotted with sweat. Ron set a hand on her shoulder, shook her a little. “ _Hermione?_ ”

“ _Stop trying_ ,” Harry ordered. His lungs loosened when she snapped her mouth shut and slumped back into Ron’s chest, Ron’s arms coming around her torso to hold her close. They all inhaled simultaneously; the muscles in Harry’s legs felt weak. “God. I’m sorry. I didn’t— understand.”

“I can’t say,” Hermione repeated, voice thready. She tucked herself a little closer to Ron with a deep sigh, reached out and touched Harry’s waist, her fingers curling into the fabric of his Auror robes. 

Harry took her hand, laced his fingers through hers. Caught Ron’s worried gaze once more, over her head, and shushed her. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. Don’t try.” He Summoned some parchment from her desk. A self-inking quill. “Just— put me in touch with someone who can.”

* * *

She was waiting when Harry arrived at Draco’s studio. Raven hair caught up in a messy bun, her lips pouting a bold scarlet, Pansy sat on the middle of Draco’s massage table. She was wearing a slinky black party dress with sparkly things all over it and, as Harry approached, she pulled her dangling legs up and crossed them, blithely flashing Harry a shot of her silky red knickers.

“So,” she said cheerfully with a sickly-sweet smile, “Granger wrote that you needed to meet with me?”


	9. Chapter 9

“I wanted to meet with you _three hours ago._ ” Harry stalked up to Pansy and handed over Draco’s letter. She took it with a single, arched brow, a familiar mask of polite derision. It was the same one Draco wore so frequently, Harry felt like he’d just swallowed a whole bottle of Polyjuice — his insides slimy and squirming alive, his skin stretching too tight. 

“I was busy,” Pansy said, not looking at the letter. “You’re interrupting one of the two nights per week I have a few hours to do what I want, and the time I spent last week with you cost me a perfect mark on my magithermodynamics and kinetics exam. I _do not get_ ninety-eights, thank you. I’m entertaining Granger by meeting you tonight, but you’ll have to give me a good reason for actually helping you in any way. I’ve done enough.”

Harry took a step back. Her words were a gauntlet thrown, and one that presented far too much temptation; everything in Harry was screaming for a fight. He wanted to bloody his knuckles against the wall, wanted his wand hot and dripping sparks, wanted to lash out with the violence roiling in his gut. It would be so _easy_ to go back to hating Pansy, the simpering, jealous girl who’d called for Harry’s head on a spike when he was barely a man. 

The simpering, jealous girl who still adored Draco as much as she ever seemed to back then. Perhaps more. 

Turning, Harry spied the waiting chair by the door. He twitched his index finger at it — _Come here._ — and sat down when it hit the backs of his knees. He crossed one leg over the other and wandlessly unbuttoned his robes to loosen the pressure across his chest. Then he propped his chin on his fist and gazed at her.

“What?” Pansy asked. 

It was a feeling not unlike when Harry slipped on his Cloak, a rare occurrence these days, but no less thrilling than it had ever been. And calming, too, a lightweight blanket of invisibility, lending a degree of imperviousness, of confidence that he’d only be found out when he was ready. An ability to see more than was seen of him — and he could suddenly see Pansy with perfect, startling clarity. 

Simpering, jealous, petty Pansy Parkinson, Draco’s most ardent admirer in school. The person for whom he’d swallowed his pride to seek help from someone he must have assumed would never forgive him his wrongs; his closest mate; his family. Harry wondered mildly whether they’d been engaged at one point, which seemed as likely as anything for all the bickering sibling-ness they shared. Harry would wager every single Knut in his vaults that she loved Draco with a depth she loved very little else.

And yet here she sat, making herself comfortable in Draco’s dim, empty studio — his _home_ — when Harry had shredded the wards the previous day. Here she sat, without a care in the world but to needle Harry, to set him off. To see how far she could push him.

Which meant at least one thing: Draco, wherever he was, wasn’t hurt. Harry could take his time figuring out the rest.

“ _What!_ ” Pansy demanded once more, after Harry’d let the silence simmer a while. 

“Nice knickers,” he said at last.

Pansy glanced down, shifted from side to side on her arse. It only made her skirt ride up higher, revealing a bit more of the creamy insides of her thighs and the violet lace trimming the crotch panel of her pants. Harry held in a snort, and when she looked back up, her gaze was shrewd. 

“They were a gift,” she said, notching up her chin.

“From Blaise,” Harry guessed. “I saw them in his shop. Because you’re sleeping together?” If he recalled correctly, they had built-in vibration charms. But then, most of the things Blaise sold seemed to. 

“No.” Pansy made a throaty sound that Harry could have sworn was genuine amusement. “Although that’s not unheard of for people who are six months shy of their wedding.”

And, well, that was surprising. “Congratulations. He’s not gay, then?”

“He’s an _entrepreneur_ ,” she said, smirking. “I’ll bet you were ready to buy half of his merchandise because you thought he might shag you.” Then she hesitated. Rolled her eyes. A little more fairly, she added, “His preferences are rather fluid, which helps. People almost always know when they’re being lied to, even if they don’t want to believe it.”

It sounded like something Draco’d said at one point. Harry nodded. “Yes, we do. Like Draco’s letter.”

“It’s a good tactic to stay in business,” she said, ignoring that. “Find a way to engage someone, to relate to them. Distract them with the offer of something they want, something you can speak knowledgeably about because you’ve tried it, and open their purses while they’re panting. The mere suggestion of such satisfaction can bind people to you. It will have them trotting after you time and again. People give up far greater things than gold for that sort of connection.”

There was something sly and enquiring about how she said it that settled heavy as a stone in Harry’s stomach. “Thanks for the sales lesson,” he said, forcibly unclenching his jaw. He smiled the smile he wore in an interrogation room, widening it when her gaze darted away. Swift, but telling. “But if your insinuation is that Draco or I have done that to each other, you’re wrong. You weren’t there when—” He broke off, swallowing. He looked at the curtains leading to Draco’s flat. 

“I didn’t need to be,” Pansy said. “I know him.”

Harry dragged in a breath and glanced at her to find her frowning. Her head was tilted, her bun listing to the side. 

“I know him, too,” Harry said simply. Maybe not as well — maybe he and Draco would _never_ know each other as well — but it was the truth. He knew the things Draco had done and the person he’d been, knew that nothing Draco did would ever repair the things he’d broken. But he also knew that Draco wanted to _try_ , that he used his own magic to ease the suffering of others, perhaps the only way he could make amends. Draco wasn’t the boy he’d once been, cruel and full of the hate that had been bred into him; he was his own man now, and one that Harry—

“Are you sure about that?” Pansy asked.

The front of Harry’s neck crawled with heat, rising over his jaw. To his cheeks. Explaining that Draco had made soup for him Saturday night would do nothing for him — nor would relating how, when Draco mentioned that anyone could heat something in a tin and Harry’s spoon had clattered back into the bowl with a splash, Draco had only paused for a bare second to study Harry’s face before climbing back out of bed with the tray. _Actually, I’ve changed my mind. I hope you don’t mind the wait, because I really prefer using fresh ingredients,_ he’d said. And telling her about Draco’s magic would seem like a disloyalty of sorts, relating that by the time Harry left early Monday morning, he could feel it every time Draco touched him. That Draco sent pulsewaves of magic through Harry, accidental and flooded with so much prickly hope, it tied a knot around Harry’s heart; that Harry was fairly sure those odd looks Draco had begun giving him were because Harry couldn’t help but to mimic it, couldn’t stop his own magic melting into Draco from his hands and his kisses every time they got close.

It didn’t take much to learn about Draco, once someone bothered to pay attention. 

So Harry cleared his throat and only said, “Yes, I know him,” once more. Blushing, because he did. Because he had no doubt the look on his face betrayed those small intimacies and hundreds more, as well as everything he wasn’t quite ready to admit yet — every memory so deeply, intensely private that it seemed faintly voyeuristic for Harry to even think of them in someone else’s presence. 

Pansy seemed to hold herself very still, then gave a defeated little slump. She shook her head up at the ceiling and sighed. “Merlin, I owe him a Galleon; you really are more annoying than Hermione.”

“Is he with you?” Harry asked. “Blaise said—”

“He’s not with us.” Pansy shrugged, one of her dress straps slipping off her shoulder. She fixed it with her pinky, then fiddled with the neckline of her dress, not meeting his eyes. “We don’t know where he is. Perhaps with Narcissa, but he’s never disclosed where she moved after the Ministry took the Manor, not even to me. It was safer.”

_Safer._ Harry breathed through the word and its implications, then set it aside to consider later. “Why didn’t Blaise say that?”

“He—” Pansy curled her fingers around the edge of Draco’s table. A grimace crossed her face. “—can’t.”

Harry sat up straighter, gripping the arms of the chair. The fabric was soft under his palms, incongruous to the beat of tension pulsing between them. “Like Hermione can’t? But you can.”

Pansy scoffed and and released the table. She lifted a hand to her face, stroked around the border of her bright mouth with the tip of one manicured nail, as if she thought her lippy was smeared. Harry’s shoulders bunched with pained curiosity, but patience was a learned skill, valuable for an Auror to have; he ruthlessly held his tongue, deferring to her desire to evade for however long it lasted. When she was finished repairing nonexistent flaws in her makeup, she tapped the same nail twice against her teeth, dropped her hands flat to the table and uncrossed her legs, letting her bare feet dangle — then hopped gracefully to the floor.

“They were for my birthday,” she said. Harry said nothing, confused but not thrown — having a conversation with a Slytherin felt a bit like being dropped into the middle of a maze without a guidance spell, but it was something he was getting accustomed to. But he did raise his eyebrows when Pansy flipped up the flounce of her skirt, another wink of red and purple, and added, “The knickers.”

“I got that,” Harry said. He stood because she seemed to expect it, then followed her when she turned and headed into Draco’s quarters. 

They were as he’d last seen, Draco’s wardrobe standing wide open and missing his clothes and travel bag. Pansy pulled a face at the state of the bed, rumpled and unmade, but sat down at the foot of it anyway, looking far more comfortable amongst Draco’s things than Harry appreciated. 

“What are we doing here?” he asked.

Pansy gestured to the small side chair shoved against one corner of the room — where she should be sitting, in Harry’s opinion, leaving Harry the bed. But she didn’t seem inclined to give up her spot, so Harry sat down warily. 

“Draco’s the oldest of us, did you know that?” she asked. Her lips curled in a nasty little smile. “Of course not, you don’t even know his birthday.”

“Of course I know his—” Harry cut himself off, mind racing. He couldn’t remember when he’d learned it, but recalled the Slytherin table piled high with gifts in front of Draco, always on the same day of the year. The same day, nearly three weeks prior, when he and Draco had— what? Practiced High tea, gone shopping for Muggle accessories on Bond Street? Had lunch with Astoria together? It hadn’t been something for Draco, Harry knew that much. “June fifth.”

“Yes…” Pansy drew it out, the word softly hummed, sibilant. “I forget, what did you get him?”

Harry shot a glare at her. “Fine. We hadn’t yet—” He waved a hand in the air, narrowing his eyes when she made a flat sound of disapproval. “Where are you going with this?”

“Draco in June, Blaise and Greg in August,” Pansy said. Her lashes swept low. She watched herself trace a pattern onto Draco’s covers. “Mine in May, the eighth to be exact.”

“That—” Harry felt Pansy’s eyes on him, his own gaze wandering to settle on Draco’s herb boxes as he tried to figure that out. “We don’t get our letters until we’re eleven.”

“ _Usually_ ,” she said with a satisfied smile. “Exceptions are made occasionally, for witches and wizards who will turn eleven before the school year is out. I happened to be one.”

The eighth of May. She would have turned seventeen not a week after the final Battle. Which meant— “That’s why you were never charged with anything,” Harry said. “You weren’t of-age.”

Pansy huffed. “Honestly, what rubbish. They had nothing to charge me for. I didn’t even hex you with my wand, and believe me, the Carrows that year had taught us some—” She blanched, mulishness disappearing like a flash. Her throat worked and then, more quietly, she said, “—some awful spells that year. I could have used one, but I didn’t.”

“That’s your excuse?” Harry asked, staring at her. “That you didn’t do something _worse_?” 

“Well, it’s true. Would it make you feel better if I grovelled for your personal forgiveness? Told you I did it because I was awful? I _was_ awful, but that’d be a lie,” she said. “I was terrified, and you were there.” Pansy let that sink in for a moment, then sighed. “Of course, they drained our vaults regardless. Daddy released my dowry early to Lucius when he asked for it — and that was fairly ironic, considering Narcissa knew our match wouldn’t happen; she’s known about his preferences for years — and it was enough to pin us as financial supporters of the war. But he was usually smart — my father, that is. He likes to stay out of conflict, and that was the most the Ministry had on us. They graciously agreed to let us keep a yearly stipend, if we signed deals admitting fault. Even me.”

“I knew you two were engaged,” Harry muttered, temporarily diverted by the concept of a dowry. His head came up. “You had to plead guilty of a crime?”

“Privately,” Pansy said. “And not to the extent that Draco did, or Greg. Even Blaise, whose mother is,” her lips pulled into a little moue of displeasure, “the quintessential Slytherin, very cunning. He was already seventeen when the Carrows had us practice Dark magic on the younger students. She paid about three husbands’ worth of gold to keep him from Azkaban. Regardless, their contracts stipulate a— response, if they talk about the deals they took.” Her voice shook slightly. “With anyone other than a spouse, or their solicitors.”

Harry stood back up, edgy with adrenaline. The oxygen in the room was stale, so he flicked his fingers at cracked windows, slotting them higher in their frames to let in more air. “And any solicitor they signed with would be bound by the same silence. The same penalties.”

“Granger did say you were clever,” Pansy said musingly. “I would have got there a lot sooner, but…”

“But Greg—” Harry said. “Greg said some things about—”

“Greg’s nervous system is a little… off. He doesn’t feel pain as immediately. His father—”

“Draco told me,” Harry said, and Pansy paused. Nodded. 

“Anyway, I have a little more leeway. It— hurts.” She grimaced. “But not as much. I can get more out. If I think you need to know.”

“Why did Draco leave?” Harry asked immediately. 

Pansy’s eyes widened. “You’re really not even going to consider it for a second, are you?” she asked, burbling a shocked little laugh. She shook her head with a trace of admiration, then seemed to brace herself, the dips of her clavicle hollowing with tension. “I’ve already—” her voice broke, “—given you a lot of it. If you’re really that cle-ver.” Her words splintered, her forehead creasing. She gathered Draco’s covers tight in her fists. “But who. Might. Want Draco— to go?”

Harry knelt in front of her. She was sweating like Hermione had, her cheeks a vexed red, her limbs starting to tremble. But she met his gaze unfalteringly. He set his hands on her waist and closed his eyes, pushing a burst of magic into her, the strongest anesthetising spell he knew. She inhaled loud and deep, as though breathing had been a struggle, and nodded for him to go on.

“A vigilante?” Harry asked. She stared at him, and he shook his head. “No. Someone with a vendetta, though. Yes? And they’d have to be in the Ministry, right, because they’d know Draco couldn’t talk.”

“Not— a ven-de-tta,” Pansy got out. “More like sim-ple— _spite._ ” Her body jerked, small and fragile under his hands, the beads on her dress rattling slightly. “A— a— a—”

“A _what_?” Harry asked. God, Draco was going to kill him for doing this to her. “A member of the Wizengamot? The parole coordinator? A—”

“An _entrepreneur_ ,” she whispered. “Potter. Go— Go look in Draco’s—” She pointed weakly behind herself. Her jaw was bunched, working as though she had more to say, but she’d reached her limit. 

Harry let his hands fall from her and rose, dread welling in his chest. 

_A good tactic to stay in business_ , she’d said. _The mere suggestion of such satisfaction can bind people to you._ she’d said. 

There were wards set on Draco’s bedside drawer. Harry ran his hand over the scarred wood, felt the creak of the wards fall. Heard the clatter of something rolling, loose, inside. 

He opened it.

* * *

The cottage was modest, quaint, a shadowy orange in the early morning light. Harry shook off the queasiness of Apparition and examined it for a moment: the crooked, buried-stone path leading up to the front door, the window boxes of jasmine, their petals just beginning to curl inward in preparation for day; the old-fashioned door with its fading wood and intersecting mullions, fit with gleaming glass. The whole property had an untouched, timeless appearance, flowers and ivy snaking around the bars of the wrought-iron fencing, a steady, droning hum of bees in the background. But tendrils of magic wept from the structure, a rebuke of the wards as Harry crossed the boundary of the gates; it slowed his steps as if he was mucking through treacle — sticky, thick. Like walking against a hard, determined wind. Harry glared at the shimmer in the air, and drew his wand.

“Fuck _off_ ,” he muttered, shouldering into it. 

The resistance abruptly vanished when he reached the wide, high arch of the doorway, and he stumbled against the door. Somehow, that only added to the momentum of his anger. 

“Draco!” He beat against the wood framing with the flat of his hand. “Draco Malfoy, wake your arse up _right the fuck now!_ ”

A lamp flared to life inside. Harry kept pounding on the door. Harder when a pale blond glint of hair rounded the corner — only dropping his hand when the door finally swept open.

“Yes?” Narcissa Malfoy asked. Her voice was cool, poised, though it was obvious he’d just woken her up; her eyes were sleep-puffy, and her hair floated soft about her shoulders, her fingers clutching the neck of her silk dressing gown closed. Harry spared her a tight smile and pushed in past her.

“Yeah, hi. Where’s Draco?”

Narcissa spluttered with wordless offense, her posture drawing up. Harry considered pointing out that he was no longer fifteen and now easily cleared her height by four or five inches, but considering the look on her face, she probably wouldn’t believe him anyway. He glanced around, walking deeper into the house. 

“Ex _cuse_ me, Mr Potter,” she said, following closely behind him. “I believe you need a warrant for—”

“Not when I’m breaking in illegally,” Harry threw cheerfully over his shoulder. There was a small parlour filled with Victorian-style furniture — heavy woods, crafted into delicate sticks — off to the left of the entryway, and a hallway off to the right. He went down the hallway, opening doors as he went. “Draco!”

“How _dare_ you—”

“Pretty easily.” Harry opened another door, which turned out to be a cupboard. “See?”

Her lips took on a sour twist. She continued after him but fell blessedly silent, only drawing in one sharp inhale when Harry twisted the knob of the third door and opened it: a bedroom, barren of furniture but for a small wash stand and narrow bed. But Draco was sound asleep in the bed, the covers drawn up to his armpits, a dark sleep mask affixed over his eyes. Harry’s breath left him with a _whoosh_ , and he gripped the door frame to keep himself upright. 

“As you can see,” Narcissa said stiffly, “my son is asleep. He was exhausted upon arrival, and put up a _Muffliato_. If you have any care for how inappropriate this is, Mr Potter, you’ll—”

Harry wheezed a laugh. “You know what, Narcissa?” he asked softly, disabling the _Muffliato_ with a wave of his hand and slanting her a grin she didn’t seem to appreciate. “I really, really don’t.” 

And then he cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “ _DRACO! MALFOY!_ ”

Draco bolted upright in bed, turning his head from side to side. “ _Professor?_ he blurted. “Am I—?” His hand flew up in alarm and he ended up slapping himself in the face. Yelping, he gentled the investigation of his own blindness as he seemed to remember that he was wearing a mask. He patted it, found the elastic holding it in place, and stripped it from his head. His mouth dropped open.

“Hi,” Harry said. He smirked. “Prefer being woken up the way I did it last time?”

“What the bloody—!”

“Professor?” Harry asked.

“How did _you_ get in?” Draco said.

“He’s just leaving, dear.” Narcissa drew a wand from her dressing gown.

“No he’s not, and I’d put that away if I were you,” Harry said. “Professor?”

Draco squinted groggily at Narcissa. “Mother, what are you doing here?”

“You’re sleeping at my house, remember, darling?” she said, glaring up at Harry when he snorted another laugh. “And he’s _leaving_.”

“He really _isn’t._ ” Harry raised his eyebrows. “Just how differently did Snape treat the students down in the dungeons?” he asked, and Draco’s gaze snapped to his, his cheeks flooding pink.

“I was dreaming I was late for class!” he shouted, scrambling out of the bed. The blankets tangled around him and he fought them, huffing, until he managed to kick them to the floor, then marched up to Harry and dragged him into the room by the arm. Eyes locked onto Harry’s, voice frigid, he said, “Mother, I’ll take care of this. Go back to bed.”

Harry heard Narcissa _tsk_ behind him. “You needn’t shield me from his poor conduct, Draco; he’s just as mannerless as ever. I’m going to Floo our solicitor and—”

“ _No,_ ” Draco snapped, and during the beat of silence that followed, Harry took the opportunity to whisper confidingly, “Did you hear that? I’m _mannerless._ ”

Draco shut his eyes briefly and shook his head, then pasted on a smile. Looking over Harry’s shoulder, he said, “Pardon me, Mother. But really. Please give us a minute.” His gaze stayed in place, a stern flatness to his mouth. After a moment, Harry heard the shuffle of footsteps receding. Draco paused to exhale, then scowled at Harry and let go of his arm. “I meant what I said. Are you honestly so desperate you’ll come sniffing after it all the way to the Isle of Man? Really, Potter.”

 

“Well, I wasn’t, “ Harry said, raking his gaze up and down Draco’s body, covered only by a pair of white cotton boxers, tenting just slightly at the groin with the remnants of a nocturnal erection. “But if that’s an offer…”

“Get. Out. Or I’ll—”

“Or you’ll _what,_ ” Harry challenged. 

Draco flicked him a skittish glance, then knelt to rummage in a bag sitting at the foot of his bed. He drew out a white t-shirt and pulled it on, scraping his fingers through his tousled hair to put it into some order. At length, he said, “I’ll report you, of course.”

Harry’s lips tightened. “Really?” he asked with what felt like a frankly astounding amount of restraint. “To who?”

“How—” Draco’s jumpy gaze stilled on the window. Outside, the sky was growing ever lighter. From Harry’s position, he could see the border of a formal garden, albeit a small one, with elaborate topiary hedges and snow-white roses just beginning to unfold from their sleep. Draco’s throat worked in profile. “How did you find me?”

“Oh, that’s not the question you should be asking,” Harry said. It was getting more difficult to hold onto wrath that had sent him here now that he could see with his own eyes that Draco was fine (if simply a complete twat), but he doggedly managed it. “I’m an Auror, that one should be obvious. Why not try: ‘What did you do last night, Harry?’”

“Very well, since apparently I’m supposed to care,” Draco said. His jaw went hard, then his neck and shoulders, his back, a flow of tension down the long, lean line of him. “What did you do last night?”

“I found myself at a loose end,” Harry said conversationally. “I had a date, you know the sort. He cancelled, so I ended up basically torturing his best mate.” Draco’s head twitched with an instinctive turn to face him, but he reined it in. Harry walked over to the side of the bed and sat on the edge behind him, stretching out his legs as the bed frame creaked. “It didn’t make my list of top five evenings ever, but I was worried, you see.”

“You’re a fool,” Draco said under his breath. 

 

“Maybe.” 

Draco’s back expanded against his t-shirt. Like so much of what he wore when he didn’t expect to be seen, it was too big for him; it hung lopsidedly on him, baring the creamy skin and ball of one shoulder. He said, “What do you want, Potter?”

_You._ Harry held it in — it wouldn’t be well-received. “Well, since our arrangement worked so well last time,” he said, “I thought we could revisit the terms.”

“Ah.” Draco pivoted on his heel, turned to look at him. He lowered, propping himself on the windowsill and stretching out his legs as well, a reflection of Harry’s pose, his bare toes almost close enough to brush the soles of Harry’s boots. He lifted an eyebrow. “Did you like my cocksucking enough to blackmail me for it?”

Harry ground his teeth together, a flare of resentment leaping in his chest. He set his hands on his knees so the rising scald of his magic couldn’t escape. “There’s no need to be deliberately offensive.”

“So it’s entirely unconscious of you, then.” 

“That _is_ why I hired you.” 

Placing his hands flat on the sill on either side of him, Draco leaned forward. “What do I have to do to get you to leave?” 

Each word was chipped off like ice, Draco’s smile colder still. He sneered it — an expression cruel enough to topple a weaker man. But Harry kept his gaze on the tiny creases etched around the corners of Draco’s silvery eyes, the only hint of anything on his aristocratic face that hadn’t been formed or learned in the bitter, malignant tundra of his youth. They were laugh lines, recent. Evidence of a warmer heart. 

“I need your help,” Harry said.

Draco’s face flickered for an instant, and he scoffed to cover. “Why on earth would I—”

“Because I need it.” Harry stood, putting his hands deep in his pockets; Draco pulled his legs in, a touch defensively. Harry prowled as close as he dared, a roar of blood rushing in his ears. “I’m really, really angry,” he admitted quietly. “Even at you — maybe especially at you, even though it’s not,” he cracked a humourless laugh, “your fault. I can’t— I can barely control my magic right now. And I have to do something tomorrow, and I’ll need a shot of what you do so I don’t make a mistake. That’s the first thing.” 

_The first_ , Draco mouthed, a wrinkle tucked on the bridge of his nose. He slowly rose so they were at eye level with one another. “What did Pansy tell you?”

“Enough that I knew where to look to figure it out,” Harry said and Draco stilled. Harry could see the fast flutter of his heartbeat, just over his collarbone.

Draco blew out a breath. “It’s been less than a week since I worked on you. I can’t do much.”

“Try,” Harry urged, heart in his throat. His gaze fell to Draco’s mouth, slender lips immobile but no longer with that cruel slant. Draco cleared his throat and held out his hand, palm up, and Harry pulled his from his pockets. 

“Your wrist,” Draco said. 

Harry put the back of his wrist in Draco’s hand, breath growing immediately unsteady at the small, dazzling shock that rippled through him when Draco’s fingers closed around it, his thumb resting over Harry’s pulse. Draco took another step in, their chests nearly touching, and lifted his other hand to Harry’s cheek. Harry closed his eyes. 

It was like last time, and not at all; the sensation of arousal coursing through Harry didn’t come as a surprise, but as a sweet, exhaustive relief, sweeping away the cobwebs of rage and sadness that choked the flow of his magic. Draco’s hand trembled on his cheek, and Harry brought up his own to cover it, tilting into the press of Draco’s palm — little stings, sharp and needling like the bristle of Draco’s magic, a whisk of something _simple_ and _clean_ , that left Harry feeling scoured from the inside out. 

Draco released his wrist, chest rising and falling fast against Harry’s. He tried to pull away the hand held to Harry’s cheek, but Harry tightened his hold. Eyes still closed for fear they might overflow, Harry turned his face and kissed Draco’s palm. 

“Thank you,” he said roughly, muffled. Then: “I’m sorry.”

“For what,” Draco said, belligerent. He jerked his hand away again, and this time Harry let him, drawing a deep breath. He opened his eyes. Blinked them until they were no longer swimming.

“For not noticing,” he said. He tapped the breast pocket of his robes, Draco’s secret tucked inside. “That you weren’t…”

Expression flat, Draco said, “I thought it was you. I—” He made a strangled sound, a flash of pain creasing his forehead as he shot Harry a slightly panicked look and shook his head. Harry pulled him in by the hip, slid a hand around to flatten between the push of Draco’s shoulder blades. He could feel Draco’s racing heart against his chest, the hardness of Draco’s cock against his pelvic bone, even as Draco tried to resist his embrace.

“Don’t say any more,” Harry said. “I’ll take care of it.”

“I meant it,” Draco muttered, breath hot on Harry’s jaw. He held himself stiffly in Harry’s arms as if poised to escape. Giving nothing back. “I don’t want to see you again.” 

“That presents a problem,” Harry said. The aftermath of Draco’s revitalisation, even just a few seconds’ worth, left him giddy. Sure. Like taking a sip of Felix. He huffed a laugh and rolled his hips once with a rumble of pleasure, but stopped when Draco managed to, somehow, poker up even more. “Because that’s the second thing: I need a plus-one for the gala Sunday night.”

“And I’ve no doubt Astoria has some fine escort services in her contacts,” Draco said, squirming. He got a hand between them, pushed on Harry’s chest. With a deep frown that did nothing at all to hide his blush, he said, “For those clients who have certain needs, but want to be discrete.” 

Harry snorted. “Good to know. What time should I pick you up?”

“Potter, I c—” Draco gritted his teeth and wrenched away. “We’re not seeing each other anymore.”

“Yes, you _can_ ,” Harry said pointedly. “I’ll meet you there, how’s that.”

“That’s—” Draco scowled, staring at Harry like he was daft. Harry preened, and Draco’s hands drew into fists. “Bugger off. You got what you came for; you’re getting nothing else.”

He looked like an outraged albino peacock standing there, pale from head to toe, the feathers of his hair fanning as he shook his head, practically vibrating with impotent fury. Harry’s heart swooped and, euphoric, he struggled to contain the laugh in his chest. 

“Okay. I’ll see you there.” He gripped the nape of Draco’s neck, pulled him in, and kissed him hard on the mouth. Draco stubbornly didn’t return the kiss for all of two seconds, and then his lips parted at the sweep of Harry’s tongue, softened, his mouth moving against Harry’s in that way of his — thoughtlessly seeking and hungry, as though a single kiss was was all it took to flip the switch he used to hold himself apart. Harry’s blood rushed hot through his system, triumph whittling away the last of his doubt, and he pulled back before he could get carried away. “Sunday,” he said, grinning at Draco’s spell-shocked expression. “The Ministry Atrium. Seven o’clock.” He kissed Draco’s chin, then let go and turned. 

He strode to the door, cutting off Draco’s squawked, “I will _not_ —” with, “It’ll be safe for you to go back to work by tomorrow night. Oh, and I fixed your studio as much as I could, sorry.”

“ _What did you do to my studio?_ ” he heard behind him. Harry didn’t pause down the hallway other than to flick his hand to close Draco’s door. But his footsteps faltered as he passed the parlour and saw Narcissa kneeling in front of the Floo, agitatedly whispering to a face Harry didn’t recognise.

“Your solicitor?” he asked. She whipped around to glare at him, haughty and disapproving, then past him, her face flickering with concern at the bangs issuing from Draco’s door. Harry winced a little; he perhaps shouldn’t have spelled the lock so tight — but it did give him a couple of extra minutes, so he said, “Didn’t you agree not to do that?”

“I do what I have to, to protect my son,” she said, climbing to her feet. “As you well know.”

“As I well know.” Harry nodded, assessing her. There was almost nothing about her he liked — but he did respect her love for Draco. He met her eyes. “I’m going to give you some help with that.”

“You—” Narcissa caught whatever insult was on the tip of her tongue. “What?”

Harry swept her a bow. “My apologies,” he said, “for my lack of manners, before. I had something important to discuss with him.” He darted a glance down the hall, where Draco’s door was rattling. “I should be going. Give Draco my regards.”

“Why did you come here, Mr Potter?” she asked, eyes narrowing — suspicious; steely. He respected that, too. She said, “What is your business with my son?”

“It’s not business,” Harry said with a helpless lift of his shoulders. “I’m falling in love with him.” 

Narcissa’s eyes widened; her lips rounded into a soundless ‘o’. Harry got to enjoy it for all of two seconds before the splintering of wood down the hallway drew his attention.

“Uh, don’t tell him that part yet,” he said. Then he got the hell out of there, before Draco ripped the door off by its hinges.

All-in-all, he thought as he Apparated away, it was a fairly successful visit.

* * *

Harry Owled in sick on Thursday. So soon after his return to work, he wasn’t surprised that Robards’ reply was laced with reproach; it would have been, regardless. Harry incinerated it with vicious pleasure, sat down, and wrote a half dozen letters of his own.

When he was finished, he opened a window for any return Owls and ran a practiced eye over the lengthening shadows on his walls; they either indicated that he’d been awake for far longer than twenty-four hours — or that his flat was due for a good cleaning, which was very likely also true. Then he stripped out of his clothes on the way to his room. Leaving each item on the floor where he took it off, Harry removed his robes last and took them with him to bed, tucking them under his pillow, and then fell asleep for a solid fourteen hours, a blessing for Ron’s skill drifting through his head when he woke up. 

Refreshed, he got into work early and spent the morning on busywork — clearing his desk between meetings, reassigning low-priority cases to the few junior Aurors they had on staff — and arrived at Robards’ office precisely at two. He let himself in without knocking. 

“Harry!” Robards recovered from his surprise quickly. He rose from behind his desk, an ugly, ostentatious thing that probably weighed a metric tonne, but that he seemed to think made him look powerful. He gestured to a chair. “I’m glad you were able to make it in today,” he said, with a weird blend of censure and approval that grated on Harry’s nerves. 

“Me too,” Harry said with an easy smile. He sat down and propped his boots on the edge of Robards’ desk, smile widening when Robards’ eyebrows flew up. “We have a lot to talk about.”

Robards coughed into his fist, deliberately overlooking the slight. “Care to join me for that drink while we plan?” he asked, Summoning a bottle and two tumblers. 

“I’m good,” Harry said. Robards paused in the process of sloshing whisky into the second glass, then poured what was in it into the first. He took a shallow sip, eyeing Harry over the rim. 

“So. You mentioned having ideas to get around the Wizengamot’s objections,” he started.

“Yeah, but I decided I’m not going to implement them.” Harry looked around the office; it was three times the size of his own and smelled faintly of curry, the walls crowded with commendations. His desk was completely free of files. 

“Well, of course you should!” Robards said with a deep chuckle. Much to Harry’s satisfaction, it rang with a faint unease. A question.

“No,” Harry said, bringing his gaze back. “Because it involves running against you and getting voted into the position.” 

Robards took another, deeper sip of his drink. Cleared his throat. “Well, of course that’s something we could consider.” 

“Not me,” Harry said. He let the automatic deflections of guilt that wanted to spring off his tongue work in his favour, injecting acid into the words. “Because you’re my _mentor_ , aren’t you? Head Auror Robards, so _trustworthy_. Someone who _cares_ , right?” The phrases were so deeply ingrained, it made his throat ache to say them in such a tone.

“I—” Robards inhaled, the whisky in his glass trembling. “Well, I’m flattered, son—”

“Call me that ever again, and I’ll kill you,” Harry said quietly. He sent a silent prayer of thanks to Draco for funnelling out so much of the pain storming through him, but it was still there, edging up to the boundaries of his self control. Robards’ cheeks went ashen as if he could sense how deeply his manipulations had cut, how serious Harry’s threat was. But he merely inhaled after a moment, then drained his drink and set it down. 

Gravely, he said, “After everything I’ve done for you, Harry—”

“For, or to?” Harry let that sit for a moment, a tiny grey magic curse burning hot between them. Robards sat back abruptly, a flat stare replacing the false concern on his face. Harry nodded, relieved to have it out in the open. “What I keep wondering is how you did it. To me, that is. I’ve almost got the rest figured out.”

“Oh?” Robards asked. He watched Harry steadily, calmly. Like a snake, patient for his turn to strike. “And what ‘rest’ would that be?”

“Where the extra funding for our department has been going,” Harry said with a significant glance and a tight smile at Robards’ desk, at the expensive bottle of whisky sat atop it. “A lot of which comes from the reserve vaults from war reparations. And why you’ve been so intent on cutting me off from the Wizengamot, keeping me tied to you.” He gestured to the commendations on the back wall. “Just out of curiosity, how many of those were given to you based on cases I solved?”

“A good leader gets the best from his employees,” Robards said smoothly. He laced his fingers over his stomach. “And should be rewarded for doing so.”

“And should cover his tracks better,” Harry said. 

“You can look,” Robards said, unbothered. “My pay packet is generous, but perfectly legal, my increases in salary agreed upon by the majority of the Wizengamot. It was poor judgement on your part that you never questioned my version of why our department’s budget is so low.” He smirked. “I’m proud of you, actually. Lesson learned. Constant vigi—”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Harry said, dropping his feet from the desk, his magic boiling up from his centre. Tensing for action.

Robards hesitated. Moved on. “Well, obviously we couldn’t have this department run by someone who showed such a naive amount of faith. You may be finally ready. We’ll discuss it in a year or two.”

“And here I thought you might simply offer to step aside,” Harry said, “in exchange for not going to Azkaban.”

“For what?” Robards chuckled again and poured himself another drink. Swirling his glass, he said, “Could this be about your unsavoury affiliations of late? Because the concerns I mentioned the Wizengamot having are true.”

“After you planted them.”

“And? They’re valid. So is each and every one of the signed sentencing contracts in our files from your new group of friends, in case you wondered.”

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t take that on faith,” Harry said. Robards’s smile hardened, and Harry relaxed slightly; he hadn’t yet checked, but there had to be _something_ in those contracts he could use. 

“So what’s your plan? To run against me, with a week before voting would need to close?” Robards asked archly. “To make accusations that would make you look just as incompetent as the Wizengamot thinks you are when you're not able to find anything substantial? I’ve worked with these people for years. Decades, in some cases.”

“Yes. Like Kingsley,” Harry said. He drew a letter from his pocket, tossed it to the desk. “Who knows your tactics well, and has been wondering about how you’ve been running the department for a while. But if the Minister for Magic doesn’t impress you, what about Glendis Whitmore?” he asked, pulling another letter and tossing it beside the first. “Don’t recognise the name? You should; she’s been one of the filing clerks for the DMLE for nearly forty years. She charms copies of every case anyone turns in and keeps them down in the wizarding space on level thirteen. Unaltered.” Harry took a breath and reached into his breast pocket. “Or Draco Malfoy.”

“No one is stupid enough to take the word of a Death Eater, even if he _could_ t—” Robards cut himself off as Harry opened his hand to display the broken length of Hawthorn. It was now connected only by the thread of a unicorn hair, still glowing white all these years later. Harry’s palm tingled with recognition, an echo of the wand’s former power humming at him through his skin. 

“I’ve got the original paperwork you signed when I relinquished it into your care,” Harry said. “And I’ve already cast a _Priori Incantatem_ at it. The last spell it cast was a disarming spell. _My_ disarming spell. Yet, oddly, the last spell directed at it was… yours. What do you think the public might do if they find out you snapped the wand that defeated Voldemort,” he asked, insides foul with disgust, “just to keep it from the hands of its original owner? You vindictive _bastard_.”

“Harry—” Robards swallowed, eyes frozen to the wand. “Perhaps I—” 

“Thought he wouldn’t keep it?” Harry asked, closing his fingers and tucking the wand away, close to his heart. “Then you’re a bigger idiot than you are a liar. But I won’t use it,” he said. Robards gaze came up; his face was shaken. Sick. Harry shoved down the gratification he got over that — just a little longer. “I won’t use the wand. I won’t tell anyone about it. Not if you go to Kingsley right now and confess the rest.”

“Confess,” Robards echoed hoarsely. “No. I’d—”

“Serve six months in Azkaban. Maybe nine,” Harry said. “Or potentially talk your way out of serving anything at all. Claim you thought it was righteous, how you terrorised so many families, claim that taking credit for my work was done out of fear for your job, and now you’ve seen the error of your ways; there’s always a chance the Wizengamot will show pity. Either way, you’re gone, finished. Today.”

Harry kept his face blank as Robards examined him. Without the wand, he had very little and they both knew it. A handful of boastful lies from which he’d wrangled pay raises, an injured owl and stolen bit of Harry’s mail, a curious vendetta against a group that was generally hated in society. But Robards didn’t know what Harry did: that Harry could _never_ use the wand as proof. So Harry held himself still and met Robards’ gaze when he finally gave a stilted nod. 

“Good,” Harry said. He rose. Smoothed his robes. “He’s waiting for you outside your office.”

“I see.”

“You never told me how you got into my head, though,” Harry said. “I’m immune to _Imperio._ But you had me working a hundred hours a week without complaint,” he said, grateful his voice wasn’t shaking. “You had me thinking,” he huffed a pained laugh, “I was less than I am.”

Robards smiled — the same warm, jovial smile he’d used on Harry for years. But his eyes were hollow. With the gentleness of an assassin, he said, “Magic doesn’t play into everything, Harry. Chosen One or not, in the end you’re just another fatherless boy seeking the approval of a new one.”

The sharp crackle of magic filled Harry’s head. Anger, pain. The arrow was so perfectly aimed, it stabbed into every single one of Harry’s pressure points. He steadied himself with two fingers against the top of Robards’ desk and searched for the prickly, soothing bit of residual magic still thrumming in his wrist, his cheek. 

He drew a breath and said, “The Dementors won’t even have anything to feed from if you go to Azkaban, will they?” then went to fetch Kingsley, at the door.


	10. Chapter 10

**SPECIAL EDITION: SCANDAL AT THE MINISTRY!**

 

According to a statement made by Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister For Magic, Head Auror Gawain Robards has tendered his resignation — effective immediately. But unnamed Ministry sources claim our heroic Head Auror has done so in disgrace, and may additionally face criminal charges of blackmail, coercion, and theft. Robards, oft praised for his nearly ninety percent solve rate of cases in the last five years, worked with the famed Order of the Phoenix during the war against He Who Will Never Be Named, which makes this reporter wonder how far into the past his (alleged) criminal activities go. We will report events as they unfold. 

In a far less surprising turn of events, our very own saviour, Harry James Potter, was named in the statement as his mentor’s interim successor, and our same anonymous sources claim he's all but guaranteed to take over the position permanently. We at the _Prophet_ wish him congratulations and the very best of luck — not that he’ll need it. Potter has already reached out to the staff of the _Prophet_ to let us know he hoped the temporary transition would be a smooth one, and that he would be receptive to answering all professional questions posed. Given such an opening, we of course couldn’t resist asking what his plans were. “Reorganising the department,” said he, in the low, deep tones of true justice. “We’ll be taking on more Aurors to meet at least the minimum requirement for the DMLE, and hopefully more.” When asked where he’ll be recruiting, Potter said that they will be open to all applications, regardless of background, as long as the applicants are able to meet the prerequisites of the department. You might want to open a few extra windows at the Ministry for all of those Owled CV’s, Mr Potter, once people realise they’ll have the opportunity to work with you! 

The official announcement regarding Potter’s permanent acquisition of the position is expected to take place in two months, after contract negotiations and a thorough overview of the current budget. In the meantime, we will be reporting on Potter at the fundraising gala for war orphans, which takes place at the Ministry two days hence. We anticipate furnishing all of our lovely readers with a plethora of photographs of our new Interim Head Auror in formal robes. Hurrah, you say? So say all of us, as well! 

Potter recently made headlines for his brand new look, as well as for shopping at the exclusive— **cont. on page 5.  
See page 2 for a Complete History of Gawain Robards: Pre-Hogwarts to Head Auror  
See page 4 for Predictions from Renowned Seer Yasmina Biddlebaum: The Fate of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement  
See page 6 for Potter!Trends: Now and Through the Ages**

*

_Potter,_

_I saw the article and would like to extend my deepest gratitude for ~~whasfsddkjjjj——~~ things I am still apparently unable to even discuss on parchment, as well as my most sincere congratulations for your promotion. You owe me two hundred Galleons for the destruction of my wardrobe. It was an antique._

_D.M._

_Draco,_

_The Wizengamot is working on modifying the original probation agreements you (and others) were forced to sign. The sheer amount of confusion right after the war and during the trials meant that Robards was able to get away with a lot; I’m sorry, it’s probably going to be at least a few weeks._

_Sorry about the wardrobe. I had a bout of accidental magic after I spoke with Pansy. But I did fix it. I also fortified your wards. You’re welcome._

_See you Sunday,  
Harry_

_Potter,_

_There is a one centimetre gouge on the left hind leg. ‘Fixing’ something requires finding every single splinter of which it’s comprised._

_I wish you luck finding someone to take you to the gala._

_D.M._

_Draco,_

_Are you sure it wasn’t there before? Maybe I should come over and check._

_Thanks, I’ve already found someone. He’s very blond, very pointy, very good looking, and quite mad about me. _

_Harry_

_Potter,_

_He’s only three of those things, and he’s not attending — he was utterly serious about not seeing you again. And no, you’re not invited over. Now that we have someone decent running the DMLE, please don’t make me have to call for him to arrest himself._

_I’m tired, stop Owling._

_Draco_

_Draco,_

_Fine, I’ll wait till Sunday to see you. Also, Ron said he could come by and fix the tiny scratch on your wardrobe if you let him know when would be good for you._

_(Last Owl of the night, I promise.)_

_Harry  
P.S. Which three?_

_Hermione,_

_Sorry, I know I promised to Owl, but everything took much longer than I thought — it’s been a day. Can you both stop by in the morning? I’ll fill you in then. (Also, I need a rather big favour from Ron and I’m hoping that if I ask in person he won’t say no.) _

_Love,  
Harry_

* * *

“—so, no! No fucking way!” Ron said, a murderous look on his face. “It was one thing making the damn table for him when I didn’t know who it was _for_ , but I’m not tending to every little scratch on his poncy furniture, too. I have my own things to do, Harry, and—”

Harry nodded, tuning out what seemed a never ending rant as he crossed over to where Hermione stood near the counter. Lifting his coffee mug to hide his mouth, he whispered, “What’s got into him? I mean, I was expecting him to say no and maybe throw something, but he’s pretty much made his peace with me seeing Draco, so this can’t all be about—” He side-eyed Hermione, whose lips were stretched into a vacant smile, her unfocussed gaze on Ron’s face. 

She took a sip of her tea, then murmured, “I don’t know. He’s been in a bad mood for a couple of days. Oh! I forgot.” Turning, she rifled through her bag on the counter and pulled out a bakery box. “I stopped before waking him up.” 

Harry took the bag and nodded again at Ron — who was ranting about being taken advantage of now, or something to that effect — to show he was listening, and Summoned a plate. He hastily dumped out the variety of pastries and held them in front of Ron, arm extended. “Hungry?”

“—maybe I _will_ start charging you, Harry. Maybe— Yeah, thanks.” Ron distractedly grabbed a pecan sticky bun and took a huge bite. “—Maybe I’ll starf sharjing you whef you’re _thirby_ , how a-out at?”

“That’s fine,” Harry said, nodding again. “Yeah, of course, I’m asking a lot of you. Charge me. I’d love it if you charged me.” Ron’s chewing slowed, gaze narrowing, and Harry smiled his most virtuous, _Don’t-forget-we’re-best-mates_ smile until Ron swallowed and took another sullen bite and fell into a stewing sort of silence, rather than resuming his tirade. Thinking it probably best to change the subject while he had the chance, Harry sat at the kitchen table and said, “I don’t suppose you read the paper last night?”

Hermione nodded, seizing on the topic as she refilled her mug. “Yes, of course. We also got some Owls looking for comment about how we thought you’d do in the position — congratulations, by the way. That is, assuming the article was accurate.”

“Most of it.” Harry rolled his mug between his palms, eyes on the steam rising from it. “Robards was…” He sighed. “I know you can’t talk about it yet — Draco implied he couldn’t — but will it hurt you to listen to _me_ talk about it?”

“Oh.” Hermione blinked. “No, I suppose not,” she said, coming to sit next to him. “I think it’d be fine even if you weren’t technically one of my clients.” She looked at him, apology shining clear in her eyes, then came over to sit next to him. “I wanted to tell you— things.”

“I know,” Harry said. 

“I just couldn’t,” she said. “Even that hypothetical I gave you was almost too much, and I was mainly answering questions.”

“I know,” he repeated, taking another sip of his coffee. “I’m just— I wish I’d paid more… I wish I’d known. But you couldn’t have known all of—”

The sound of glass slamming down on the counter made them both jump and look up. 

“Can _someone_ ,” Ron burst out, “tell _me_ what _either of you_ know?” He jabbed a finger at Hermione, a vein in his forehead throbbing. “I get it, you have loads of confidentiality clauses, but I swear, if you ever sign another one that makes you react the way you did the other night just _trying_ to talk about it without warning me beforehand, we are going to have _words,_ ” he said, low and hard. He swung his finger to Harry. “And _you!_ ” 

“Me, what?” Harry asked, startled. Ron’s finger was so close to his nose, he had to cross his eyes to see it. 

“You! Well! I don’t rightly know yet, but I can’t just be mad at Hermione, can I!” Ron folded his arms and glowered, remarkably intimidating for someone who so rarely lost his temper — except that Hermione’s lips were twitching when Harry glanced at her, her gaze lifted up to Ron, sparkling and helplessly fond. Harry fought a sudden smile. 

“You sound like your mum,” he said. Ron’s face lit a fierce, deep red, and Hermione made a high-pitched sound, like the whistle of a train before it took off, and threw one arm across Harry’s chest as if that might protect him. His smile breaking free, Harry suggested, “You can be mad at me for sleeping with Malfoy if you want. I did that a _lot_ last w—” 

“I will _kill you_ ,” Ron growled through clenched teeth. 

Harry spared a moment to be grateful for Hermione’s arm — Ron wouldn’t risk any of his hexes injuring her, even through second-degree contact — then pushed it aside. “I’m sorry. I should have Owled you as soon as I had more information.”

Hermione got up and approached him. Ron, still staring at Harry with a sort of outraged fear on his face, dragged his eyes to her as she slipped her arms around his waist. “I’m sorry too,” she said softly, her cheek pressed to his chest. His fingers sank into the brown cloud of her hair, and he exhaled heavily. Hermione leaned back and looked up at him. “You’re right. I’d have been terrified watching something like that happen to you and not knowing why.”

“I deserve to know if you’re doing something that might hurt you.” Ron grumbled it, but his face was already softening. “Even if you can’t tell me what it is. So I can be _prepared_ ,” he said. “Me and Harry, so we both can.”

“Yes,” Hermione murmured. “Yes, I’m sorry.”

She stretched up on her toes, and Ron stooped. They kissed, slow and sweet. Harry waited for it to end, but when Hermione’s arms slid around Ron’s shoulders and his hands tightened at her waist, decided to give them a minute and headed into the parlour.

* * *

_Potter,_

_It is a gouge, but I suppose that will suffice. I (currently) have no major complaints about the work Weasley did on my table. Please keep in mind that if I do not find his work up to scratch on my wardrobe, I will still be billing you. _

_D.M._

_Draco,_

_Let me know how I can work my debt off. (I’m willing to be ordered around a little, if that’s what it takes.)_

_What colour robes will you be wearing to the gala? I thought I saw a set in black, and another in green, and because of your rather terrifying attention to detail and ability to spend my gold, I have far more options than I think I’ll ever need. We could dress to match._

_Harry_

_Harry,_

_Are you really going to be Head Auror? That’s brilliant, congratulations! Watch for Mum’s Owl — she was weeping openly when she told me via Floo call last night, so I’m fairly certain you’ve got at least a basket of sweets on the way, but maybe even a mid-year jumper._

_Sweden is lovely and cool. Apparently the thinner air is good for our lungs as we train, but I’ll have another week off next month. Let me know if you’d fancy grabbing lunch again._

_Miss you!  
Ginny_

_Dear Harry,_

_My apologies for my late reply; the responsibilities of running Hogwarts are, as ever, immersive. I have been informed of your recent accomplishments, and have been asked to extend all of our best wishes and highest regards._

_In addition, I hope you will allow me to indulge in a more personal sentiment. You are so like your mother and father before you, as well as the many people I know you’ve loved along the way. I can express no surprise that this responsibility has been bestowed upon you — only pride and pleasure, for there is perhaps no one who deserves to achieve their goals more, and I look forward to seeing you and being able to say that in person._

_Most Sincerely,_  
Minerva McGonagall  
Hogwarts Headmistress 

_Harry,_

_Molly wanted to write, but she’s rather overcome. We couldn’t be more delighted for you. Please excuse the multiple deliveries — she’s been baking all night._

_Arthur_

_Harry,_

_My mother told me to say hello. Merlin knows why._

_I am not going to the gala. Find someone else. _

_Draco_  
 ~~P.S. I bet you’d like getting on your knees to take my orders. I wonder~~   
P.S. I will very likely be too busy to meet with you to resolve any lingering debt between us for several weeks, but I will consider your offer at that time. 

* * *

“Wait a minute,” Hermione said. She shifted onto her stomach on the bed, kicking up her feet behind herself, her ankles crossed. “If Robards hexed an owl, that’s illegal. That’s mail tampering.”

“Yeah, but did anyone see him do it?” Ron asked, not seeming to expect an answer. They’d been so flustered since walking out of the kitchen — hand in hand, after forty minutes of making sounds that had forced Harry to put up more than one Silencing charm — that neither of them had let him get more than two sentences out at a time. “If it was just a case of an injured owl and Harry’s missing letter to Malfoy, how is that proof?”

Hermione hummed, then shook her head, pulling a face at the robes Ron held in front of Harry. They had shoulder tassels, which Greg assured him would be making a “comeback”, but Harry was relieved when Ron nodded and put them into the ‘no’ pile. Hermione said, “No, it’s not proof, you’re right. But then what did he end up confessing to, if his bloated income was legal and you had no real evidence of wrongdoing?” 

“Maybe these,” Ron said, frowning at a set of red and silver robes as if considering them. Ron twirled his finger in silent command, and Harry glared but turned like a mannequin on cue. Ron cocked his head. “So what _did_ you say to convince him?” He put the robes in a smaller ‘maybe’ pile at Hermione’s nod, giving her a wink and waggle of his eyebrows while he was at it. Harry grimaced and considered bringing up the time Ron caught him with a hand up Ginny’s shirt. 

“Harry?” Hermione prompted. 

“Oh, am I allowed to talk again?” Harry asked. “I wasn’t sure.”

Her cheeks coloured a little. “Of course. You’re telling the story,” she said, a little primly. Then: “Try the other black set, the one without embellishments.”

Harry sighed as Ron went to fetch them. “I don’t doubt that they’ll find plenty of evidence of his other crimes over the next few months,” he said, “beyond the contract stuff. But—” Ignoring Ron’s little put-upon sound, he twisted and levitated the wand box on his bedside table over to Hermione. “I had him dead-to-rights on that, and I was counting on the fact that he’d choose being disgraced over being disgraced _and_ universally hated — he was always so pleased with his reputation…” Harry trailed off, brushing Ron’s hands away. At Hermione’s little gasp, he went to sit down next to her, and Ron followed. 

“Harry—” she said tightly; Ron breathed, “Fuck, mate,” and Harry nodded. 

“Yeah.” Harry touched the velvet casing, chilled. “I didn’t notice he never used one. I was around him for weeks, nearly every day, and it didn’t occur to me. I— I _felt_ his magic, so it never… Pansy said she got another one for him, in France, after he was refused buying his own, but that he hates using it, only uses it for small things when he has to. And I didn’t notice.”

They sat in silence for a minute, looking down at Draco’s broken wand. It represented something to each of them, and Harry thought it would have been hard enough to accept for those reasons alone, but the sheer maliciousness of what Robards had done to Draco was enough to make him sick. He still hadn’t been able to reconcile the man he’d so admired to the man who was capable of such greed and spite; he didn’t think he ever would. And what made it even worse was that part of Harry wanted to _justify_ it for him — someone who could perhaps once have been great, and honourable, if he hadn’t spent his life comparing himself to others. 

Harry closed he box and set it aside. After a moment, Ron cleared the roughness from his throat and Hermione discreetly wiped her eyes, and Harry stood. 

“Come on,” he said, indicating the clothes strewn about his room. “Help me find something impressive to wear.” 

Hermione sniffled, then gave a little laugh. “You’re not even a little worried he won’t show up?”

“No,” Harry lied. He stared at his reflection as Ron held up the set of formal robes in solid black; they were Harry’s favourite, unadorned beyond the single, long row of onyx buttons down the front, and so severely tailored that Draco’s jaw had gone hard as granite when Harry had tried them on. But they were comfortable as well, the split up each side to the hip allowing for movement, and since Draco had taught him to dance, Harry had hopes he’d be able to use the skill on him. If he was able to wear him down. “He likes me,” Harry said, trying to sound confident. “Robards just… I don’t know.” He shook his head, unable to think up an excuse for Draco’s resistance now that Robards had no leverage. “He’ll be there.”

Ron muttered something about Draco being a git; Hermione didn’t respond at all. But after they unanimously decided on the second set of black robes and Ron and Hermione were getting ready to leave, she pulled out of Harry’s hug to look earnestly into his eyes and said, “You really can’t figure out why Malfoy refuses to be seen with you in public?” 

Harry huffed a pained laugh. “After he worked so hard to make me presentable for it? No.”

“Mm.” She pursed her lips. “But is that really what he was making you presentable for?” she asked, and laughed at Harry’s surprised blink. She pressed a kiss to his cheek and went to join Ron at the Floo while Harry was distracted, but after Ron had gone through, paused again, sobering. “Harry. I— I know you like him, but,” her gaze flicked past him, then came to rest on his face, “don’t be stupid.” 

His cheeks warmed. “Hermione,” he said, smiling, “when have you ever been able to—?”

“Fine, _fine._ ” Her eyes were gentle. “Then just promise me you’ll be careful.” 

“That, I can do,” Harry said. Probably, anyway.

* * *

_Draco,_

_Your Vanishing spells on parchment are shit. Ask me whatever you wonder about ordering me around and I’ll tell you. On my knees? Yes. In any other position as well. But I assume this arrangement is quid pro quo._

_Regarding your alternate post script, I was wondering how you might feel about a compromise. Theoretically, if I didn’t ask you to accompany me to the gala — or anywhere else for the next, say, two months or so — do you think you might find enough free time in your schedule to let me suck your cock? Discreetly, of course. I’ve been fantasising about it for a fucking week._

_Yours sincerely,  
Harry James Potter_

_Harry,_

_I hope this means you’ve secured another date to the function, but… yes. We might be able to arrange that. On occasion. When did you have in mind?_

_Draco_

_Astoria,_

_Please forward the attached to the Prophet for Sunday’s edition._

_Thanks,  
Harry_

_Harry,_

_Are you sure?_

_Astoria  
P.S. Congratulations on your new position._

_Draco,_

_How about tomorrow night around seven, in the Ministry atrium? If that’s not discreet enough, I believe the cloakroom is also rather large. (Please keep in mind the compromise I suggested was theoretical.) _

_I don’t want another date. I want you._

_Besides, I have something of yours I need to return. I’m busy tomorrow morning, but I’d be able to give it back at the gala._

_Harry_

_Astoria,_

_Yes. Run with it!_

_Thanks,  
Harry_

_Potter,_

_Owl it to me, you absolute wanker._

_D.L.M._

*

DRACO MALFOY TO ACCOMPANY HARRY POTTER TO MINISTRY GALA!

 

Yes, it’s true! The whispers following our Chosen One over the last several weeks have been substantiated — by none other than Harry Potter himself! Notoriously private in regards to his personal life (as his repeated threats to sue this very publication for libel can attest), Potter has decided on transparency for the first time since his relationship with Holyhead Harpies Chaser Ginevra Weasley ended in 1999. We at the _Prophet_ can only assume this is because of the newfound scrutiny he finds himself under as interim Head Auror. For whatever reason, it is information we are happy to report upon. In the statement Owled to the _Prophet_ from Potter’s representation, he says:

> I will be attending the war orphans fundraising benefit with Draco Malfoy. I will be wearing black formal robes.

If you, dear readers, required a wand to recover from the shock of this deluge of information, you are not alone; more than one _Rennervate_ had to be cast amongst our staff when the statement arrived to our newsroom. In point of fact, for the traditional New Year’s poll, curiosity about Potter’s love life had grown to a monumental 87%, second only to a question so salacious we cannot print it in our morning edition. (Perhaps Draco Malfoy will know the answer.)

Potter and Malfoy’s history is well-documented. Though at odds with one another during their time together at Hogwarts, in light of this new development, one wonders if any of their enmity might have been due to a romantic interest in one another that they were unable to act upon. Rival Seekers for the Gryffindor and Slytherin teams, Potter and Malfoy frequently got into physical altercations (pictures on page 3) that resulted in— cont. on page 2.

*

_Potter,_

_ What did you DO?! _

_Draco_

_Draco,_

_Just clearing up a problem I suspect you might be having._

_For the record, the two-month waiting period until I take over the department full time has nothing whatsoever to do with public appearances. The job is mine. I can explain the rest tonight, if you deign to show up. (Read: Get your head out of your arse, please. I much prefer my face there.)_

_Please return your mother’s ‘hello’, by the way. (She probably only extended it in the first place because I told her I was falling in love with you, in case you were still finding it troubling.)_

_Harry  
P.S. Maybe you could thank me for the fortified wards now, you ungrateful sod?_


	11. Chapter 11

_Never arrive at a party when it is scheduled to begin._

Draco’s voice ran a constant loop in Harry’s head, and he checked his watch. Technically, he was already twenty minutes late — though he was starting to wonder if it might be better to ignore Draco’s thirty-minute rule than be found hiding behind the embarrassing marble statue of himself at the age of seventeen outside the ministry’s atrium. He peeked inside once more, watching the Floo for any telltale glint of white-blond hair, but with each minute that passed, the ever-increasing crowd further blocked his line of sight until he could only make out the elegant arrangements of flutterby and baby’s breath that rested on the mantelpiece. 

Harry turned to scan the room itself in case he’d missed Draco’s emergence. In expectation of the sweeping numbers the event had garnered last year, the Ministry had expanded the floor space to that of a proper ballroom, and — likely in response to the incidents with the Owls flying overhead — had covered the open skyline with a glass ceiling, charmed to magnify the starlight. Combined with the fairies fluttering their luminescent wings near the hors d'oeuvres tables and between the arches of the balconies surrounding the dance floor, an ethereal glow washed over the entire hall and all of its inhabitants. The effect was delicate and shimmering, inviting, and if Draco could see it, Harry had no doubt he’d be impressed — but the pompous arsehole _wasn’t there._

“I have to say, the likeness is truly incredible,” said a low, feminine voice. “To how you looked back then, that is.” 

Harry turned, a guilty smile creasing his face when he spotted Astoria. Her dark hair was a glossy curtain down to her shoulders, and she’d chosen to entirely reject wizarding attire with a silky wine-coloured suit; her trousers were wide and fluttering, and the cut of her jacket exposed the bare inner curve of each breast — in a low v, almost to her belly button — as well as the pale skin of her torso. But the glittering buttons clasping her jacket shut, and the wide diamond choker around her throat gave a more serious nod to the formality of the event, and she looked unperturbed by Harry’s quick double-take. She returned his smile and lifted the champagne flute she was holding in a silent toast, then took a modest sip as she waited for his response.

He held up a finger to his mouth. Astoria raised her eyebrows and joined him behind the statue, following Harry’s gaze. “I didn’t realise that taking you on as a client meant that I’d be participating in your investigations,” she murmured, “but I have to admit I’m not averse to it; it’s such fun to have inside knowledge.”

“I’m waiting,” Harry said. 

“Thirty minutes?” she guessed, and Harry nodded. Up close, her eyes weren’t the brown he’d thought when they first met, but a softer hazel flecked with green. A faint, conspiratorial quirk lifted one brow, lending to the elegant whimsy of her outfit, and Harry was reminded how much he liked her — how much, really, Draco had done for him. Astoria smiled. “It’s good advice.”

“It was Draco’s.” 

“Ah, yes.” Astoria leaned to peer over his shoulder as Harry turned back to study the crowd. “Where has he got himself off to? Come to think of it, I didn’t see you two show up.”

“I came through the DMLE Floos to avoid the mayhem,” Harry said. He grimaced at the perplexed silence that followed. “Draco… isn’t here yet. But he will be.”

Astoria took a step back. “Harry—” She hesitated, fingers rising to toy with the gems of her choker. “Oh, no. Oh, dear. He _did_ agree to accompany you, didn’t he?”

“Well…”

“Harry, Draco is... stubborn when he cares about someone.” She ran her tongue over her teeth, then _tsk_ ed. “Stubborn enough not to do what’s good for him.”

Uneasy, Harry said, “What do you mean?”

“Well, the two of us, for instance,” she said with a gentle wave of her champagne flute. “It would have worked well in his favour — my family’s reputation is solid, our vaults secure, and he knew I’d give him freedom to live as he wished after we conceived — but he broke our betrothal contracts regardless—”

“Betrothal?”

“—all because of a silly little clause that mentioned an old familial blood curse, and— Oh.” Astoria’s gaze swerved from his, relief settling her shoulders. She looked at him again, smiled. “My apologies. Nevermind.”

“Betrothal?” Harry asked again before his mind caught up. He glanced back at the ballroom, zeroing in on Draco immediately. It was hard not to; he stood out like a beam of light in his solid white dress robes, an almost exact copy to Harry’s except in colour, stretching tight across his chest and the lean breadth of his shoulders, a million gleaming, ivory buttons lined from his throat to his knee. He was chatting calmly with a small group off the centre of the room. Harry blinked once, then again, to make sure he wasn’t imagining things when he realised Draco hadn’t been doused by fairy dust — that the brightness around him was his alone.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Astoria said with a light touch to his elbow. Unable to drag his gaze from Draco, he saw the amusement in her smile from his periphery, but when she spoke, her voice was kind. “I should be getting in there; you’re not my only client here tonight, you know.”

“Ngghpphmm,” Harry got out. At the sound of her light laugh, he shut his gaping mouth with a click and finally looked back just in time to see her walking away. Tugging on the high collar of his robes — it suddenly felt as tight as the crotch of his trousers — Harry took a deep breath and stepped from his hiding spot.

His shoes tapped out a hard click on the polished floors as he strode through the atrium, the sound slowly drowned out by the increasing volume of whispers. But he kept his gaze locked on Draco’s sharp profile, and the crowds in his way parted as if people could see by his expression that he wouldn’t stop for anyone else. He drew to Draco’s side, close enough that the scent of citrus oil lingering on Draco’s skin surrounded him, and pressed his palm lightly to the side of his waist. Draco’s muscles tensed at his touch, but he didn’t pause speaking even long enough to look at Harry.

“—which is why export tariffs should be imposed. The exchange rate of the Benzant has an advantage over both the Galleon and the Dragot right now, but France is the primary hub for what should be considered luxury items. Some of the native potions ingredients found there, for instance, are still revered as exotic and rare, when if you look at any of the curriculum for fourth year Herbology, you’ll find we harvest many of them locally now.”

Harry stared at him and tightened his hand, fitting himself to Draco’s side. His heart was beating fast, the room hazy around them. He heard his name spoken and nodded, watching Draco’s lips twitch, and then Draco suddenly twisted. Harry’s pulse jittered, but Draco didn’t try to move away; he simply leaned out, his hip pressing against Harry’s for a moment, and scooped a glass of champagne from one of the silver trays floating about the room, then passed it over to Harry.

“Excuse him,” he said as Harry dumbly took the drink. “It takes him a few minutes to relax at these events.” He slanted a pointed look at Harry, then at the glass, his expression edging ever closer to a roll of the eyes. But colour was bled high on his cheeks, imperfect little blotches of emotion that told a different story and, almost as if he didn’t mean to, he pressed a little harder to Harry’s side, his hand coming up to rest flat between Harry’s shoulder blades. 

“Yes, that’s right,” Harry heard as he contemplated licking the strip of skin visible between Draco’s collar and jaw. “I do remember reading about what happened with the Spanish Minister’s daughter.”

Draco’s hand moved, slid down. Then he poked Harry hard in the spine and Harry started, barely refraining from dropping his glass. He turned to the others, flushing; not only was MACUSA’s Deputy Commissioner of Commerce staring at him with an indulgent smile, three other people he didn’t recognise were exchanging laughing glances. 

“Right.” Harry nodded, then narrowed his eyes when Draco poked him again. He pinched Draco’s side in retribution, smug when Draco’s nostrils flared. “Yes. How are you, Ms Martinez?”

“Very well, thank you; it is good to see you again. Please, call me Elena,” she said. She introduced him to her assistant and two lower members of MACUSA’s cabinet. Harry smiled pleasantly, shook hands, and offered them the use of his first name as Draco slid his finger down the indentation of Harry’s spine — a zip of magic, through layers of silk — and then paused his hand at the small of Harry’s back. 

“Hopefully we won’t have any international incidents on the dance floor this time,” Harry said, exhilarated. 

“If there are, surely you’ll find a way to smooth the waves somehow,” Elena said. “I’ve been reading about the revitalisation of magical pathways since we met. It’s not nearly as common in the States, and I find it intriguing that the flow of magic can be so linked to emotions.” She dipped her head at Draco. “Perhaps your Mr Malfoy wouldn’t mind answering a few questions?”

“My Mr Malfoy would be delighted,” Harry said.

Draco’s eyes widened a fraction, but he gamely launched into a rudimentary description of his work — as though unaware that Harry couldn’t stop looking at him, that he was fighting the inclination to shuffle him onto one of the dark, private terraces that lined the hall. As though Draco didn’t know or could disregard the fact that Harry’s insides felt shaken loose. Perfectly composed, nothing remotely in common with the distracted, horny disaster Harry was currently devolving into..

But then, still talking, Draco began stroking tiny circles over the small of Harry’s back. 

And then he splayed his fingers out.

And then he rested the tip of his pinky over the cleft of Harry’s arse. 

And _pressed._

Harry swallowed the last drops of his champagne and plunked the glass down on another floating tray. “I’m sorry,” he cut in abruptly. “If you could excuse us for a minute?"

Draco shot him an appalled glance, as though _Harry_ was out of line — and ran his pinky down Harry's crack. Back up. 

"Of course," Elena said, brow furrowing. "I hope everything is all right?" 

"Yes." Harry's cock jerked, Draco's fingers stroking the bottom curve of his bum. He forced a smile and clamped a hand over Draco’s elbow. "I just need to discuss something with my boyfriend,” he said, and dragged Draco away before anyone could protest.

Anyone, that was, but Draco. 

“I never agreed to be called that.” He smiled charmingly at a couple of Unspeakables as Harry hustled him along. “I’m not that, not your boyfriend, this is incredibly casual, a first date really, or perhaps we’re just friendly acquaintances, titles are a different discussion and there are several steps someone in your position should— _let go of me, Potter_ ,” he hissed, and turned up his toes to dig the heels of his shoes against the floor as if he’d realised Harry was leading him to one of the deserted alcoves off the atrium. Harry growled and tugged on his arm harder, so near he could almost taste it. But then Draco’s heels started to skid, and he huffed and wrenched out of Harry’s grip with a rather manic grin at no one in particular, stopping them in place. “What,” he said under his breath, smoothing down his robes with a nervous hand, “do you think you’re _doing?_ ”

“What did you think _you_ were doing?” Harry shot back.

With an air of ‘you idiot’, Draco sniffed and said, “I was redeeming myself with Ms Martinez. I barely got a word in edgewise when we met because you inexplicably decided to grow an inner swot, and I refuse to let her believe you know more about foreign finance than I do. And then I was answering a question she posed, which you _heard_ , before hauling me away. That was unforgivably crass.”

“Oh, but the etiquette of you groping my arse for tomorrow’s papers was a chapter I skipped in Miss Toodlesome’s All-in-One Guide to Wizarding Manners?” Harry asked, snorting. 

Draco, lips parted to argue, closed his mouth. Flushed. Gave a flustered glance around and flushed deeper when the flash of another camera went off. He lifted his chin. “A little unsophisticated, perhaps, but it’s not unheard of for people on a date to be seen— touching.”

“I’m glad you’ve at least decided it was a date, because I’m pretty sure friendly acquaintances keep their touching to things like handshakes,” Harry said. He firmed his lips to avoid accidentally smiling, but edged closer and lowered his voice. “You were practically fingering me in front of the entire Ministry.”

“I was simply brushing lint from the back of your robes—”

“Before flipping them up and putting it to me?” Harry asked. Draco’s breath faltered, his gaze roving down the length of Harry’s body in a manner so blatant with consideration, Harry’s erection throbbed. 

Draco’s eyes came back up, mouth pulling into the sort of smirk that did not bode well for Harry’s self-control. Without looking away from Harry’s face, he stretched out a hand to the side and snatched up another glass of champagne. He sipped it, gaze veiled, and murmured, “ _Yes._ ” 

 

“Good first date activity,” Harry said, mouth dry. He pinched the seam running up the side of Draco’s robes and subtly pulled. Casting a nonchalant look around, Draco took a single step nearer, closing the gap between them, until Harry could feel his breath on his cheek. “You look handsome.”

“I know,” Draco said. “You do, too.” Courtesy met, he swallowed hard. “Come on.”

The alcove had filled up with people as they talked, but Harry was only too willing to go somewhere else — until Draco’s long strides stopped in the middle of the dance floor. 

“Wait,” Harry said. “No.”

“After your provocative little display,” Draco said, folding the fingers of one sure hand around Harry’s and placing the other firmly at his waist, “all of the cameras are on us. So smile and don’t plough into me — you’re _fine,_ Harry,” he added quietly when Harry stumbled, “—and they’ll find something else of interest soon enough.”

“You really have a lot to learn about being friendly-dating-boyfriend-acquaintances with me,” Harry said. But he relaxed a little at Draco’s low, warm chuckle and slid his hand to Draco’s shoulder, the rich sound of the string quartet filtering in over the buzz of nearby voices, and found that dancing at an event wasn’t so difficult after all. Draco was a capable lead and kept things simple, relegating them to a small square of space that didn’t intrude on the other dancers. Harry fell into his rhythm, even glancing over Draco’s shoulder a time or two during a turn, surprisingly content to let the desire smoulder between them as more couples joined them on the dance floor for the next number.

Draco finally broke the silence. “Your promotion?” 

“Is just my job now,” Harry said, close to his ear. Over the course of the dance, Draco’s hand had slid around to Harry’s back, pressing their bodies together from thigh to chest, the hard length of his prick a tantalising rub against Harry’s hip. “I’d think you, of all people, might take whatever the _Prophet_ reports with a grain of salt. The waiting period before official announcement is standard, but the ink on the contracts was dry by the time I got home Friday night. How many women have you been engaged to?”

“Just two.” One of Draco’s eyebrows lifted, a surprised little quirk. “Been investigating my romantic history?”

“More like been subjected to it,” Harry said. “The women in your life insist on telling me.” Draco sucked his lips between his teeth as though trying not to laugh, and Harry huffed. “I thought it might be smart to prepare myself for the next one. Though I doubt the ‘romantic’ bit.”

“I’m glad to see you’re learning,” Draco murmured. “I’ll be sure to keep you apprised of my marital prospects in the future.” He spun them, once, before Harry could respond to that, a swift, dizzying twirl that slid his thigh against Harry’s heavy erection and blurred together the mix of extravagant robe colours around them, then said, “And your boss?”

“I don’t know yet,” Harry said, eyes refocussing. He caught a glimpse of Kingsley standing with his wife near the hors d'oeuvres, aiming an approving smile towards him, and waved over Draco’s back. Kingsley returned the gesture, and Harry cleared his throat. “Whatever his punishment is, it won’t be enough.”

“From what I gathered on Diagon today, he’s to be heavily sanctioned for exploiting the other Aurors’ schedules, at least,” Draco said, the grimace of a smile pulling his mouth. “And yours above all. I did try to point out—”

“No.” Harry stopped him, stopped them both in place, a swell of urgency rising in chest. “Not to me, or the other Aurors. We — _I_ — made the choice to follow him, to be... taken advantage of without asking the right questions. For what he did to everyone else. To _you._ ”

Breathing shallowly, Draco searched Harry’s face; his lips curved in a small, contained smile. He reached up and tweaked Harry’s glasses, the pad of his thumb guiding the bridge higher on Harry’s nose, and he said, “I might almost feel sorry for him, losing your regard, if he’d been remotely worthy of it. He wasn’t.”

“You are,” Harry said. A conflicted look passed over Draco’s features, and Harry cupped the back of his head, disturbing the fine strands of Draco’s hair with his fingers. “You _are._ ”

Draco hesitated. “Harry—”

“I don’t suppose you mind if I cut in?” They broke apart at Audrina Shacklebolt’s voice, Draco taking a liberal step back and immediately relinquishing Harry’s hand over to her. Her wide, open smile turned a bit tentative, and she glanced back and forth between them. “If you were ready to—” 

“Of course, Mrs Shacklebolt,” Draco said with an endearing little half-bow. He smiled, and the tenuous, anticipatory moment they’d shared faded. “It would be a pleasure.”

“For me,” Harry put in, a burbling laugh breaking out of his throat when Draco flicked him an annoyed glance. Harry shrugged and stage-whispered to him, “You could try to make it sound a _little_ less like you were dying to get away.”

“No I couldn’t,” Draco scoffed. But his pale eyes gleamed with satisfaction and his mouth twitched when Harry deftly took her in his arms, keeping a careful distance between them. Draco nodded at her once more, an implicit, _Enjoy_ , and excused himself from the dance floor.

“I apologise if I interrupted,” Audrina murmured as they began dancing. “You two were simply dashing, but dancing with a woman can be a bit different — as you must know, since the—”

“I’m really never, ever going to live that down, am I?” Harry asked.

“It doesn’t seem likely, no,” she said with a sly grin, and Harry laughed and led her deeper onto the dance floor.

* * *

The night progressed, slow as treacle, but Draco had been right; coming with a plus-one saved Harry a host of worries. Though their interactions were infrequent between the festivities and the number of people who wanted to talk to or congratulate Harry, Draco was somehow always nearby: stepping in to make an excuse when Harry couldn’t pull himself away; levitating a plate of appetisers to Harry just as he was starting to realise he was hungry; sliding to Harry’s side and expertly breaking into whatever topic was being discussed when Harry got tired of talking. In between, Harry spotted him about the room, clever and sharp, escorting various people to the dance floor, captivating even those who seemed the most hesitant to talk to him.

“You’re making them want you nearly as much as I do,” Harry said, finally afforded the opportunity to bring Draco a drink when Kingsley got on stage to present his yearly speech.

Draco aimed a wicked smile at him that thickened Harry’s poor, neglected prick for the thousandth time, yet all he said was, “Every person is a potential client.” 

But that wasn’t it. Harry hadn’t missed the subtle strategy of Draco’s activities; he’d focussed most of his considerable charm to influence those few Harry would ultimately report to, and a wider circle comprised of those more conservative members on the Wizengamot who might one day decide to question Harry’s judgement. 

Harry touched the clasp at Draco’s throat, silver braiding wrapped around a tiny cluster of the same tiny buttons catching the light down the front of his robes. “Pearls?” he asked.

“Moonstone.” Draco’s Adam’s apple bobbed as Harry’s knuckles grazed it, his fingers slipping between cool fabric and hot skin. “They’re— They— go with my robes.”

In a voice he didn’t recognise, Harry rasped, “Yeah. I want to take them off you,” and Draco made a rough sound, his posture softening — a helpless lean into Harry’s body. Tipsy with how much he liked that, Harry said, “Draco. _I want you._ ”

Draco swayed, cheekbones splotched pink, breath coming in short, sharp pants. They were on the fringes of the crowd, the room bustling and alive around them, but they could have been alone for all it mattered. Harry shifted closer, tilted his head up to put his lips against the hinge of Draco’s jaw. Felt the shudder, unrepressed, rip through Draco’s lanky form — felt the telltale twitch of his cock through their robes. 

“You can’t leave yet,” Draco murmured. But he said it while nosing just under Harry’s ear, a fevered sort of nuzzle that stole Harry’s breath and stiffened his already aching erection further. “We can’t leave.”

“So we won’t,” Harry said, the heat of his exhale against Draco’s skin warming his own lips. 

“Good Merlin,” Draco said. He gave a strained laugh, his hand landing low on Harry’s belly — though not low enough. His fingers paused there, curled just a little into Harry’s robes before exerting pressure. Pushing him back. “And how would it look if we abandon the benefit to fuck over your desk on our first date?”

“I could Apparate home and grab the camera I bought so we could find out,” Harry offered, meaning it. Draco shut his eyes, a hot, tempted look on his face, and Harry said, “But I’m not suggesting my office.”

Someone jostled Draco from behind and his retracting fingers stilled, their tips brushing Harry’s robes. “Fuck,” he said. Then, abruptly, “Where?”

“I already said.”

Draco inhaled, hard and fast. He lifted his drink to his lips and took a sip, glancing around, and said, “Five minutes.” Then he pasted on a bland smile that did absolutely nothing to disguise the blaze in his cheeks or keen glitter of his eyes, pressed his half-full drink into Harry’s hand, and stalked off, robes whipping about his calves in his haste. 

Lust-shaken, Harry watched him go. He finished off Draco’s drink in two swallows to wet his suddenly-parched throat, set down the glass, and proceeded in the opposite direction.

The cloakroom was empty of people, the majority of attendees listening to Kingsley’s speech or otherwise occupied — and it was as private and safe a spot as Harry had been able to think of on this level, charmed to release items only to the same people who’d brought them in. It was also a disaster of disorganisation, none of the guests apparently familiar with how to store their own things amongst others; the rows of cloak racks were clogged with items, several of the small tables available for smaller items piled so high handbags were falling off — all of which suited Harry just fine. Fighting his way through the rows, he retrieved his things, stored his glasses in the pocket of his robes, and then waited for Draco to show up.

He did, not a minute later, out of breath and eyes still burning, long legs eating up the floor as he made his way into the room. He shut the door and stopped. Turned around. Tilted his head, expression flat with blind impatience. “Harry, you fucking shit, where…?”

Harry didn’t let him finish, freeing an arm to hook around Draco’s ribcage and haul him between rows, draping his Cloak over both of them as Draco fell back against his chest. Draco’s gasp came out quiet, his fingers scrabbling briefly against Harry’s arm and then relaxing to grip it. Pleased, Harry used his chin to bunch down the collar of Draco’s robes; he bit him there, grinding his cock against the muscles of Draco’s arse. 

“They’ll still be able to see our feet,” Draco muttered. But he rocked his hips back against Harry’s nonetheless, head falling sideways as Harry laved the clean strip of skin he’d bared. His hand came down and back, moulding to Harry’s hip to clasp them closer together, and Harry groaned at the unconscious skitter of Draco’s magic bleeding through the fabric of his robes. 

“Do you care?” he asked, licking the shell of Draco’s ear. _He_ didn’t — it felt like a year or more had gone by in the week since he’d last got to touch Draco like this, his physical desire a faint echo to what Draco’s thoughtless responses were doing to his heart. No longer tense or guarded, Draco was moving against the fit of Harry’s body as if he belonged there, hips working a slow, rolling beat against Harry’s pelvis, his free hand coming up to sink into Harry’s hair. He twisted his head and brought them nose-to-nose, panting against Harry’s mouth.

“I don’t,” he said, shakily. A confession; an admission of guilt. Something more. 

Harry surged against him with a hard kiss, and Draco parted his lips to swallow Harry’s pained breath, to accept the slide of Harry’s tongue into his mouth — slick, hot. His blunt nails scratched Harry’s scalp as he fisted his hand, and Harry turned and walked them forward, tugging Draco’s robes up to his waist as they went until they bumped into the wall. Draco let go of Harry’s hip to steady himself against it, feeding a stifled sound into their kiss when Harry found his erection through his trousers. Draco’s hips stuttering into one hand, Harry used his other to fumble open the buckle of Draco’s belt, to work open his flies. His efforts were rewarded when his hand met soft, curling hairs, when Draco’s bare, heavy cock bobbed out of its confinement into Harry’s grip. Harry tore out of their kiss to press up on his toes, to look down over Draco’s shoulder and watch the fold of his fingers around Draco’s shaft, to see the glisten at the tip when he glided Draco’s foreskin back.

“Fuck,” he muttered with feeling. He fisted Draco’s cock, up, down, tightening his grip around its flushed, leaking head, his own cock throbbing damply against the inside of his pants. “Look at you.” He twisted his hand around the length on a downstroke. Thumbed over the silky precome gathering at his slit, hissing when Draco’s fingers flexed in his hair. “Look at that.”

“You look at it,” Draco said, a breathy semblance of his standard, snotty drawl. He mouthed along the knot of Harry’s jaw, a hard skim of teeth, and thrust into his fist. “If you brought me in here for a quick handjob, I’m more than fine with that. Keep watching and in a minute you’ll _uhhhnn, god,_ see something really impressive.”

Startled, Harry choked a laugh and gave Draco’s prick a final squeeze, feeling Draco’s grin against his cheek. He tugged Draco’s trousers down to his thighs then started on his own clothes, hiking up his robes and jerking his trousers open. Impatient for contact, he wriggled everything down just enough so he could hook the waistband of his pants behind his balls. Draco canted his hips back, Harry’s prick pressed to one well-muscled cheek; he rotated his hips, and let his head fall back against Harry’s shoulder as Harry worked two fingers into the crevice of his arse and muttered a lubrication spell under his breath. Breathing hard, Harry stroked slippery fingers against Draco’s pucker, already twitching under his touch, soft then tense, and soft again. He pushed his fingertips in.

“I forgot the lesson on time management, didn’t I?” Draco said. His hand left Harry’s hair; he flattened his palms against the wall. “Harry. For fuck’s sake, _fuck_ me. You’ll be missed soon.” 

Harry glanced up at the tension lacing his voice, but there was no reprimand in Draco’s face; his gaze was heated, heavy-lidded, his brow creased and lower lip wet, hair tousled by the glimmery veil of Harry’s Cloak over them. He looked _beautiful_ , a thousand times more striking than when Harry had first realised he’d shown up to— to _be_ with him, and the last of the oxygen in Harry’s lungs escaped, his heart cracking open in the middle of a tiny, cluttered room that meant nothing to either of them except that they could hide in it together. Ignoring the growing ache in his cock, he reached up to angle Draco’s head and kissed him — slowly, with deliberation, soft and sipping. He pressed his fingers deeper and sucked Draco’s lower lip into his mouth; he flipped his palm down and licked hot against Draco’s tongue. Draco opened for him with a hoarse moan that wrang a small spurt of precome from Harry’s cock, and Harry stroked his thumb down from Draco's hole to his seam, fingers resting on the nub of Draco’s prostate, and applied pressure. 

“Let them miss me,” Harry murmured against his mouth. He fucked his fingers into Draco, rubbed his thumb in small circles against his perineum, felt his own massage through delicate layers of skin and muscle. Draco broke out of the kiss, hips juddering, a deep whine humming in the back of his throat. 

“Please, oh god, Merlin, Harry, don’t— I’ll— _fuck_ ,” he said on one long, rambling breath, “put it in me, _do it_ , I want your cock, please— I need—” He arched to take Harry’s mouth in another kiss, deep, ragged breaths tearing from his chest, then pushed off the wall with one hand and reached between them, stilled Harry’s wrist. He opened his eyes a slit. “ _Potter,”_ he said, and tightened his hand. 

Harry met his eyes and swallowed. Pulled his fingers out, murmuring another lubrication spell. He lined up, and Draco’s eyelashes fluttered shut again, relief sweeping over his face as Harry pushed inside. Draco’s legs were too close together and he was about an inch too tall for the angle to be easy, but his inner muscles clung hot and sweet around Harry’s swollen cock, a solace all on its own to finally be inside, and Harry buried his face against Draco’s neck and groaned. Fully sheathed by the tight clasp of Draco’s body, he kept his pumps measured, deep, barely pulling away before sliding back in to the hilt, and found Draco’s bobbing cock with his hand once more. He let Draco’s instinctive back-and-forth fucks determine their pace and shuddered out muffled curses into Draco’s skin as he started going faster, the taut backs of his thighs trembling against the fronts of Harry’s own. 

“How long,” Draco got out, nearly soundless, “did it take you to wonder if I was telling the truth? When I sent—”

“I didn’t,” Harry managed, not even needing clarification. The lie of Draco’s letter breaking things off felt insignificant; everything but the reason behind it always had. “Not even for a second,” he breathed, gasping when Draco’s palm wrapped around his nape, prickly-hot with magic that streaked down Harry’s spine like the same feeling he got casting a Patronus. “Didn’t you read my letter this morning?” he asked. 

Draco didn’t answer, but his back hitched against Harry’s chest, and Harry could taste the clean salt of sweat on his neck — could feel the sporadic, rippling spasm of Draco’s arse around his cock that precipitated his orgasms — and maybe all of that was answer enough. He tightened his grasp on Draco’s shaft as it fucked through the tunnel of his fist, then stroked down to curl his hand around the wet glans, again and again, until Draco was trembling, the head of his prick plumping even harder under Harry’s ministrations. He let out a low, keening sound, jerked his hips forward so far Harry’s own cock nearly popped out, then thrust back and came, spilling warm over Harry’s knuckles. His hand on the wall knotted, the side of his fist thumping into it.

“ _Fuck. Me_ ,” he gritted out, so Harry went at him harder, lightheaded with his own rising climax, tingling pleasure pulling his balls tight. Draco’s hair was soft against his temple, his cock pulsing against Harry’s palm, his body a bow stretched tight as he came, and Harry yanked his hips back and came too, unable to hold out any longer. The force of his climax tore a moan from his throat, Draco’s inner muscles milking him with a hard, clamping rhythm that made him see stars. 

“Dear fucking Christ,” Draco said weakly when it was over, Harry slumped and breathing hard against his back. Then: “If I turn around and there are people staring in our direction, I’m going to claim you dosed me with a lust potion.”

“What?” Harry lifted his forehead from Draco’s shoulder with a gulp.

“It’s an Invisibility Cloak, not a Muffliato Cloak, you idiot,” Draco muttered with a tiny shimmy of his hips that made Harry’s softening prick slip free. “Do you have any idea how loud you just were?”

Harry snorted and kissed his neck. He could hear the muted strains of music and chatter from down the hall, Kingsley’s speech having ended at some point. “Do you have any idea how little I care?”

“And yet you’re so concerned with an innocent brush of my hand over your backside making the papers,” Draco said.

“ _Innocent?_ ”

“Whatever.” Draco elbowed him away, reaching to pull his trousers up around his hips before twisting to check behind them. Unclenching when he saw they were still alone, he pulled the Cloak off, folded it in quarters, and draped it over the rail of the nearest cloak rack, side-eyeing Harry. “I have no idea how long we’ve been in here, but your absence has almost certainly been noticed by now. Clean us up so I can get back in there. I’ll tell people you had to check something in your department,” he said, shivering a little when Harry cast a wandless _Tergeo_ at him. He cleared his throat. “You can follow in ten.”

He straightened his clothes with brisk efficiency, then huffed and looked pointedly down at the rumpled state of his robes. Harry rolled his eyes despite the warm, glowing bubble expanding in his chest, and smoothed out the wrinkled fabric. Draco gave him a definitive nod, then started for the door — where he paused.

“By the way, where’s my wand?”

“Oh, that.” Harry took his time cleaning himself up and righting his own clothes, tucking his spent cock away and clearing his robes of creases, putting his glasses back on and running a hand through his hair — not that it would do much good — and generally dragging out the seconds until he heard the impatient tap of Draco’s foot. 

“I understand that it may seem ridiculous, me keeping it,” Draco said stiffly, “but it’s mine and—”

“It’s not ridiculous.” Harry retrieved his Invisibility Cloak and rolled it into a tighter bundle, then took a moment to hunt for the cloak he’d worn over his robes. He pulled out the little drawstring pouch within it, worked his Cloak inside, and felt around for the brush of wandwood against his fingers.

“For Merlin’s sake, Harry, nevermind, I don’t need it immediately if you’re going to—” Draco broke off, colour washing from his face as Harry pulled the wand from the pouch.

“Are you sure about that?” Harry asked. He held his breath and tossed it to him.

Draco snatched it out of the air, a quick, automatic flick of his wrist, the handle fitting into his grip with familiar ease. He stood there blinking at its restored length, jaw unhinged, and then lifted it, turned it, staring. Staring. He shook his head once, a tight motion of disbelief, his sheened gaze rising to where Harry stood watching him. He gave the wand a small swish, a damp, stifled laugh breaking free when dozens of silvery bubbles floated from the tip. 

“How—? What—? _How_ —?” He laughed again, face so lit with joy that Harry took a step nearer to him, wanting to be closer to that look. Draco flicked his wand at the table of handbags and they zipped into a modicum of order; he aimed a flick at the cloak rack and the cloaks shuffled, a fast rustle of fabric righting on hangers, the hangers straightening on the rod. Then he directed that look at Harry and it was— it was even better than touching him had been, hotter and more satisfying, inexplicably more intimate. Draco’s voice wobbled. “ _How?_ ”

Harry hesitated. Giving in to the temptation of using the Elder Wand still weighed on him a little, despite having made himself accountable to McGonagall’s opinion on the matter. But as McGonagall had pointed out, he was doing it to right a wrong, and with no expectation of power. Using the Elder Wand once every eight years under such selfless circumstances might be acceptable, she’d said, and there’d been no way for Harry to admit that it _wasn’t_ selfless, not completely. Not even a little. He’d known what he was doing was a big thing; he’d known it would be even when the idea first came to him, not quite unlike searching for the Resurrection Stone would have been. It felt entirely selfish, because he wouldn’t have done it for just anyone — and because he was filled with the same happiness he saw mirrored on Draco’s face. 

In the short time Harry’d spent falling for him, Draco had done more than revise his wardrobe and take him to task for proper pinky-in-air placement while he sipped his tea: he’d made Harry laugh and want… _more_ ; he’d given Harry permission he’d not known he needed to value himself again. He’d reorganised the priorities of Harry’s life before either of them had realised that’s what he was doing, and it made Harry feel good and right, to give something back to him. 

“I can’t tell you,” he finally said. He shook his head when Draco’s gaze flashed to him again. “Not here, or— yet. Another time, I promise. And you can’t tell anyone about it who doesn’t already know it was broken. But… it’s yours. No matter what happens between us.” He smiled. Gave an awkward shrug. “I’ve been told what bad etiquette it is to forget someone’s birthday.” 

Draco was looking at him blankly. “No matter what happens between—?” His eyebrows snapped together, and he flicked his wand at Harry’s robes, jerking him forward, then tucked the wand into his sleeve and pressed a hard kiss to Harry’s mouth. Stomach fluttering, Harry tried to kiss him back but Draco pulled away too quickly. He grabbed Harry’s hand and muttered, “Fuck this.”

“Fuck— what?” Harry asked, trying to follow his train of thought. The kiss had felt like a good thing, but the temper with which Draco opened the door and pulled Harry out of the cloakroom, and the spiky lift of his shoulders as he dragged Harry along the corridor… didn’t. “Draco, where are we— what’s—?” 

“Shut it,” he snarled, yanking Harry into the atrium. 

He marched purposefully over to where the journalists were, their avid eyes brightening as they got nearer. He stopped a few paces away, turned and gripped the fabric of Harry’s robes at the chest, and kissed him again — indecently, deep, plunging his tongue into Harry’s mouth with a soft growl that sounded triumphant, lips moving against Harry’s with an urgency that woke up his tired cock. Catching up, Harry kissed him back, winding his arms through Draco’s to press his hands against Draco’s spine and slanting his head to better fit their mouths together. Blood roaring in his ears, it took Harry a minute to realise that silence had fallen around them, that the flashes of light he saw from behind his closed eyelids were photographs being taken. 

At length, Draco raised his head. He stared at Harry for a beat, then turned and raised a slightly bewildered eyebrow at the cameras going mad, as if he couldn’t quite figure out why kissing Harry like they were already naked was a matter of public interest. 

“Excuse us, we didn’t see you there,” he said smoothly. He brushed his hair back with an arrogant swipe of his hand, then looked at Harry with a confused frown. “Is this the sort of intrusive shit I’ll have to live with as your boyfriend?”

“I—” Harry laughed, helpless with it. He was going to look like the most besotted fool in history in tomorrow’s papers, assuming they didn’t run a special midnight edition. He lifted his shoulders. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Draco sighed. “Come on, let’s dance before we head to yours.” He led Harry to the dance floor, his long frame invading Harry’s space as they began moving, and this time lowered his voice. “I did,” he said, his cheek against Harry’s. “Read this morning’s letter. Of course I did.”

“Oh.” Harry huffed a glad breath and held him closer. “And?”

“Do you need a bigger response than what I just gave the world?”

Harry shook his head. “What happened to the discussion of titles? The several steps and all the rules?” 

Draco pulled back, just enough to look at him. “Well, that’s another lesson,” he murmured with a prickly push of his magic against Harry’s palm.

“What is?” Harry asked. 

“Knowing when something’s important enough to let the rest go,” Draco said, lips curving smugly.

“God, Draco,” Harry said. Smiling, because he couldn’t not. “I could have told you that.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are lovely! 
> 
> Also, I'm on [tumblr](https://bixgirl1.tumblr.com) now! *waves*  
> And so is [m4g0rtz](https://m4g0rtz.tumblr.com/)!


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